


From the Ashes

by CaptainDeryn



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/F, F/M, Fluff and Angst, multi-game spanning fic, multi-warden worldstate, takes some liberties from canon, this fic loves Alistair Theirin
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-18
Updated: 2019-08-02
Packaged: 2019-10-12 08:55:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 77,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17464415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainDeryn/pseuds/CaptainDeryn
Summary: If you asked Baraneth or Alistair at the start of the Blight if they would be taking the Crown of Ferelden they would've laughed in your face. But with the archdemon laying dead the the danger supposedly over they are left with a country fractured by civil war and a duty to take up the now-discarded crown. Even with the Fifth Blight drawing to a close, Thedas offers more challenges growing on the horizon for its newest monarchs and its going to take every shred of trust they have in each other to weather it.Or, if you will, a documentation of Ferelden's journey to a better future, led by their famed Heroes of Ferelden.





	1. Prologue Part I

**Author's Note:**

> Baraneth and Alistair face down the Landsmeet as the decisive moment of the Fifth Blight grows ever closer.

**_Prologue  (Part I)_ **

_9:31 Dragon_

“My lords and ladies of the Landsmeet, let us begin the discussion as to who will lead Ferelden out of this dark time. Today two will stand before you, Teyrn Loghain, regent to the throne, and Alistair Theirin, son of Maric Theirin. The future of our grand nation rests on your decision today, presented to you in only cold, hard fact.” Eamon gripped the railing he stood behind, knuckles going white. “I implore you today to accept Alistair Theirin as Ferelden’s true king. Loghain would have our country lose its freedom and tradition to fear. It is he who put us on this path to civil war and destruction, should he be allowed to lead? Should Ferelden sacrifice what makes it Ferelden simply to save it?” 

( _ “They cannot want me to take the throne.” A heavy thump sounded as Alistair smacked his first against the wall, letting his forehead rest against it. “You cannot be siding with them?”  _

_ The bedspread was soft beneath her hand as Baraneth clutched it, released it, clutched it again in her fingers. “I believe it’s best for Ferelden. We cannot let Loghain continue to pull the strings, he will lead us into war with Orlais again. Your claim is legitimate and strong, people would follow you.”  _

_ Voice low, Alistair shook his head. “And what of Anora? She was Cailin’s wife after all. Far as I understand, which is very little, the title falls  to her.” _

_ Baraneth shook her head, rolling her eyes to the ceiling. “If you believe that Anora is truly in control with her father standing at her side then we may as well throw Ferelden to the lions now. Just look at what happened in Fort Drakon. She turned on us at the drop of a copper”  _

_ “Fort Drakon…” Alistair breathed out, his shoulders drooping. Slowly he dropped his fist and turned, looking at her carefully. Unintentional as her bitter remark had been it drove him off their topic.“Is Ru...? Are you…?”  _

_ She stood, crossing her arms tight across her chest. “Ruinel is recovering, they did nothing to her body that cannot be healed. But there are things in there that she should never have seen. We must remember that Anora turned her back on us. That even though she’s pulled the strings throughout Cailin’s rule she’s done nothing to change the lives of mages, or elves, or...anyone. She’s played it safe.” She sighed heavily. “Alistair, I do not wish you to force you. And I won’t. I’m just telling you what I see, my ideas of what Ferelden could be. We cannot in good faith trust Anora, we cannot trust Loghain. You are the only one with a claim to the throne by blood.” _

_ She eased herself back down onto the bed, looking at her knees as she smoothed her hands over her trousers. “But I mean it when I say that I won’t force you; it is not my place to nor do I want to see a miserable king on the throne. Apathy is not only ineffective, it’s dangerous.”) _

Tentative clapping broke out among some of the assembled, fading into silence within seconds.

The heavy oak doors slammed closed, hinges squealing across the hall.  The leather soles of boots snapped against the floor, echoing in the silence. 

The royal palace in Denerim was made to make people feel small.. With its high ceilings and long, sweeping entry hall it was intimidating, dwarfing, and humbling all at once. And yet with the lit hearths, worn and carved wooden supports and rafters, and the light streaming from high placed windows it still remained welcoming. 

If the Denerim royal palace was meant to confuse and comfort then it did its job well.

Baraneth Cousland stepped into the hall like it was her birthright, striding in with her chin held high and her eyes blazing. The Cousland heraldry of two laurel branches blazed white on the deep blue of her tunic. One step behind her, draped in elegantly dark armor Alistair looked around at the assembled nobles, sucking in a sharp breath. 

Anything comforting about the hall was dissipated in the cold interest of the Bannorn staring at them from all sides. 

( _ Alistair was silent for several minutes, pacing back and forth. She watched him from her peripheral, proud posture deflating more with each pass as she warred with herself. Her family had always instilled the desire to always put duty above all else in her; but this was not a duty she could fulfill on her own and it was not one she could force on someone else. Her chin jerked up when he spoke again.  _

_ “I can’t do it alone.” he scrubbed his hand through his hair, tugging the red-blond strands up through his fingers. “Bara, I don’t know the slightest thing about ruling- what if I mess up? There’s no redoing things when an entire country is relying on me.”  _

_ “You wouldn’t need to be alone.” she said. “You would have advisors, the Bannorn proper, any of the nobles around you.”  _

_ Alistair shook his head violently, fuming. “They’d only wish to see their own ideas for their benefit come to fruition, just as Loghain has. I don’t want  _ them _. I want  _ you _.” Just as suddenly as his pacing started it stopped, his eyes widening as he looked at her.  _

_ “You...what?” she repeated carefully, eyes narrowing.  _

_ “Do not tell me the thought did not cross your mind?” Alistair said desperately. “If you are pushing me to take the throne then did you not think to rule beside me? After everything?”  _

_ Baraneth untucked her hands, raising them in front of her. “I admit the thought did cross my mind but if I suggest that I rule beside you then people will talk. They’ll think I only wish to rule Ferelden to gain back the power I’ve lost with the death of my family and the seizure of my lands.”  _

_ “No one said you would need to propose it.” Alistair took a staggering step towards her, uncertain in himself as he continued thinking aloud. He rested his hands on either side of her face, bringing her eyes to him. “If I am to rule Ferelden then I want you by my side, with you I can do anything.” He paused, opening and closing his mouth until settling on the words he wanted. “Unless you wished to return to Highever as  teyrna, I will not chain you to the throne alongside me. If I were to take it, that is. ”  _

_ There would be talk of ambition corroding her credibility as a ruler, there would be those who saw such a union as a monopoly of power, of a puppeteer and her puppet. There would also be those who praised the Couslands to the heavens and back, those who would see it as a union that could bring Ferelden to the forefront of Thedas.  _

_ But more than anything he was strong and familiar under her touch, though a tension simmer through the muscles of his arms as she rested her hands over his. “I have no wish to make the bloodstained halls of Highever my home again. But together…together we could change Ferelden for the better.” Her voice turned breathless with the torrest of ideas flashing through her mind’s eye. She would be lying to herself if she said that in the halls of her father she had never considered what sorts of feats an idealistic youth could accomplish. That optimism may have been dampened but still remained, deep in her mind. “A new beginning with the ending of the Blight- a new era for the downtrodden, the elves, mages- a time of renewed concord.” _

_ Their foreheads touched, their breath shared between them. “I have placed my complete trust in you, Baraneth. Now is no different. I...I can’t deny that taking Ferelden’s throne feels in some part of me not consumed with insurmountable terror the right path. I never considered myself someone who cared but the thought of saving Ferelden only to leave it in turmoil, after everything lost to get it through the night...” _

_ “Then follow that feeling.” Baraneth whispered. “You are stronger and more capable than you think you are. Consider the new beginning this would be for Ferelden.”  _

_ Each night passed the discussion resumed, renewed. They spent hours mulling over each and every angle, carefully outlining  the future they would want to bring. Always spoken like they were walking on shards of broken glass, too afraid to cut each other to broach the subject in more then quiet tones and bent heads. _

_ On the eve of the Landsmeet Alistair found Eamon in his study, hand locked with Baraneth’s in a stranglehold. “Eamon, I’ll do it. Vouch for me and I will take the throne.”) _

From the corner of her eye she caught the flash of Grey Warden armor, Ruinel Surana, standing among the humans despite orders to remain at Eamon’s estate. While she whispered as Baraneth passed that all she needed was her trust, it did little to comfort her racing heart and shaking hands. 

Loghain stood at the end of the hall, hands clasped loosely in front of him as the two Grey Wardens stood in front of him. A subtle challenge simmered in their held glares until he sneered, bringing his hands together in a slow clap. “What a very pretty speech Eamon, but truly do you expect these noble lords and ladies to be fooled so easily? You wish to put a puppet on the throne, do not deny it. And here you have the puppeteer. Bryce Cousland’s welp, I should have guessed. Do tell me pup, I am sure Ferelden would love to hear the plans of a spoiled child?” 

Clasped behind her back, Baraneth’s hands tightened into fists and she felt the weight of Alistair’s hand over hers. ‘Pup’ had once been an endearment used only by her father, now it was only an insult, meant to demean her and all she had done down to the actions of a headless child. Her voice snapped like a whip across the space between them. “I have no wish to start a war Loghain, only to talk and let Ferelden decide what is best for our nation.” 

Scoffing, Loghain turned on his heel to face the gathered Bannorn, gesturing towards her with mocking grace. The crowd followed his motions, enraptured by their military hero. “You hear? She wishes only to talk, not to take action. It is action she takes by daring to even step her foot in here.” He wheeled to face her. 

“Tell me then,  _ Warden,  _ how will you let the Orlesians take our nation from us? Will they deign to send their troops, or simply issue their commanders through this would-be prince? What did they offer you? Tell us, what is the price of Ferelden’s honor now?” 

Tension grasped Baraneth’s shoulders and she forced them to relax easing her posture, adopting a relaxed but straight-backed stance. He was twisting her words on her, trying to change their  meaning entirely. This sent a sharp stab of stress through her gut, but these were the ramblings of a paranoid man. “The Orlesians are the least of our concerns Teyrn Loghain. The Blight looms on our doorstep.” 

Murmurs broke out among the Bannorn, two voices rising above the rest to call down into the theatre. “There are enough refugees flooding my bannorn now to make that fact abundantly clear.”

“The South has entirely fallen, Loghain. Will you let the darkspawn take the whole country for fear of Orlais?” 

“I do not deny that the Blight is real, Wolfe. But do we need the Grey Wardens to fight it?” Loghain sent a nasty look over his shoulder as he turned to address the nobles, regarding Alistair and Baraneth like too-old produce found in the market square. “They claim that they alone can end the Blight, yet they failed spectacularly against the darkspawn at Ostagar.” 

“Because  _ you _ withdrew--” Alistair growled, dropping the thought when Baraneth squeezed his hand hard in warning behind her back, shooting a sharp look over to him. They needed to play their cards carefully and tread lightly if they wanted any hope of not turning the Bannorn away from us. Holding Alistair’s eyes she played the first card of their hand.

“You speak of our failure at Ostagar, fine. But do not call into question our honor until you answer for your actions against Ferelden’s elves. Care to speak on the elves you sold into slavery to fund your little civil war, Teyrn?” Her voice was clipped, cold on a background of discontented grumbling. 

They were the first words she had said to give Loghain more than half a breath’s pause until he shook his head, throwing his hands up. “There is no saving the Alienage!” 

Furious cries broke out, incomprehensible growls and mutterings forming a buzzing cacophony like an angered beehive. 

“Think! Damage from the riots have no yet been repaired, there are still bodies rotting in their homes. I wouldn’t send my worst enemy there. If the Blight reaches Denerim then there is little hope of saving it. It is a weakness in our armor we cannot afford. Despite what you may think, welp, I have done my duty. Whatever regrets there may be for the elves I have done what was needed for Ferelden.” 

“Are the elves not members of our nation? Members that make it strong?” Baraneth implored, directing her words to the Bannorn. Some recoiled, their angered murmurings ceasing and she made note of them--even so much as suggesting  that the poor- and especially the elves- of Ferelden could all stand on the same ground as them was an insult to some old families. And while those families were dangerous, unable to wrap their heads around change, there were others that nodded in stern agreement, tapping those alongside them and bending their heads together. 

With one statement alone the tide was turning in their favor. She could feel the hints of a relieved smile tugging at the corners of her cheeks; their upper hand doing much to undo the tight knots in her stomach, and she schooled her expression to one that was neutral, inclining her head to the side ever so slightly. Her voice dripped innocence. “If your only want is to do right by Ferelden then is it not your duty to support Maric’s son as the true heir for the betterment of Ferelden?” 

It went deathly quiet. 

Only soft breaths and the rustling of fabric betrayed any movement at all. Loghain stared her down and she remained tall and stately. Alongside her Alistair shifted nervously. This was the part he had bucked against until the very end: acknowledging his family line and accepting that it was a card that they could play, a force they could use to manipulate the tide. 

Finally a woman spoke up, her heraldry known in some distant part of her mind. “We do owe it to Maric to see his son on the throne, but should the young Theirin not speak for himself?” 

Swallowing loudly, Alistair stepped forward, straightening his shoulders. “I can speak for myself.” He said slow and uncertain, his voice uneven. Nerves lumped in Baraneth’s throat as she allowed her control to lapse entirely to him. She trusted him completely; there was no one she would ever have more at her side in a fight but there was a difference between fights of swords and fights of words. Only one of them had the training in finesse for the latter. 

“If you wish to hear a reason why you should take at my word in this one meeting then you won’t find one. But...let me prove it to you through my actions. Give me the chance to lead  Ferelden through the Blight and into the prosperity that will come after it. Let me...allow me...to win your respect through my own merit, not just my bloodline.” 

Baraneth held her breath, biting her lip against a shocked smile at his stumbling words that were slowly gaining strength. They hadn’t gone over what words he should recite to the nobles, it would’ve sounded to insincere. This came from some hidden part of him that she had been trying to get him to see since the start. 

Bringing her eyes up to the rows of nobles she saw several nodding along with him, glancing at each other with unfiltered surprise. They hadn’t expected them to put a candle to Loghain, and there Alistair was setting it ablaze. 

“Should we allow ourselves to continue as we are now our nation will grow stagnant,” Alistair continued, hands that had been twisting around each other settling. “After the Blight we will turn back to a conflict that most of you have already seen enough of, lost too much to. Let us move away from Orlais unless there is a real threat, to focus on  _ us  _ once more so that we can throw the fear of Orlesians entirely behind us.” He dipped his head, throat bobbing as he swallowed again. 

“A choice has been given to us all today and whether we are ready or not, it needs to be made.” He looked up once more, smiling a quiet smile. It was the same soft look, the same smile, that she had found waiting for her when they had first met at Ostagar; it was the look that had unknowingly endeared several people to them across their journey. “I will not tell you how to decide, I won't tell you whom to pick. But know that Ferelden's path rests in your hands.” 

He stepped back to Baraneth’s side, and when she caught at his hand, smiling back with pride burning in her chest, she found him trembling. She had no doubt that Ferelden would stand strong with him at its head. If they would only let the change through their walls. 

For a long moment after the last remnants of Alistair’s voice had faded there was a hush. Loghain looked between Alistair and Baraneth, then once again to the Bannorn and there was a hestience in his movement. She glanced over at Alistair, holding his questioning, hopeful look that he had swayed the room enough. 

They both flinched when a sharp clap broke the hush across the hall, Loghain’s voice caustic. “A very nice speech, full of flowery promises. If he were indeed a true son of Maric, I would not hesitate to swear fealty to him. But I see none of Maric in this pup.” His glare turned back to Baraneth, pinning her under it. “But enough of this, I have a question for  _ you  _ now, Warden. What have you done with daughter?” 

Stepping forward, Baraneth shook her head with a short laugh. Loghain was singling her out again; she wondered exactly who Loghain was threatened by and how grave of a mistake that would be. “You would do well to address me by my family name, Teyrn, do I not deserve the same courtesy I extend to you? I have done nothing to Anora but protect her from you, at the cost of one of my fellow Warden’s freedom. You can confirm that with anyone who knows our location, or even your daughter herself.” 

“Ah, you have no family name left so speak of, pup, no name left to give you any credence. But you try to distract from the true problem, I have not seen Anora, Warden, you took her by force and killed guards in the process. What arts have you employed to keep her? Is the maleficar in your midst keeping her prisoner? Does she even still live?” 

_ Maleficar _ . As if Ruinel would dare to harm Anora, despite everything she had gone through because of rescuing the standing queen. Baraneth’s hands tightened into fists, her forced calm quickly fading, but her biting words died in her throat as a side entrance into the hall banged opened. Anora stepped through, head held high and walking with the poise of a trained noblewoman. “I believe I can speak for myself.” 

Alistair met her confusion with a shrug and a shake of his head, and she looked back to Anora with knitted brows. Anora had turned to the Bannorn, extending her arms to them in greeting. It did not seem like she was here to damn them, though she had not shown any support towards Baraneth in any of their conversations. So far as she had known Anora was simply going to either refuse the Landsmeet altogether or make her own claim.“Lords and ladies of Ferelden, hear me. My father is no longer the man you know…” 

“Maker’s breath.” Alistair muttered. “Is she..?” 

“A change of heart…” she murmured with a nod, sparing to meet Ruinel’s eyes. The elf raised a shoulder, offering a brief smile. That clever, clever girl. “Ru…” 

“...This man seized the king’s throne before his body was cold and locked me away so that I could not reveal his treachery. I would already have been killed if it were not for this Grey Warden and her companion Ruinel Surana. It is hearing her that I say to you all that my father is not offering the way forward for Ferelden, only a step back.” 

“So the Grey Warden influence has poisoned your mind too, Anora. I wanted to protect you from this.” Loghain said almost too quietly to hear before raising it to a shout once more. It was the last charge of a defeated army, Baraneth would swear by it. “Lords and ladies! Our land has been threatened before, it has been invaded and lost and won again times beyond counting. We Fereldens have proven that we will never truly be conquered so long as we are united. We must not let ourselves be divided now. Stand with me and we shall defeat even the Blight itself! Make your choice and make it well.” 

When he stepped back, falling back into a military rest, he nodded to the Bannorn and hushed voices broke out again, indecipherable until one by one those assembled began to step forward. Baraneth took in a breath and held it, heart beating erratically once more. Should they fail...she didn’t know that they’d see it through the night. This was treason of the highest degree to the wrong ruler.

“The Wardens! I’m with the Wardens.” 

She felt Alistair seize her hand, gripping it tight. 

“South Reach stands with the Grey Wardens.” 

A third noble’s voice, wobbling: “The Grey Wardens once helped me in a family matter…”  It was quickly overtaken by a fourth noble, the same woman who had spoken out for Alistair. “The Waking Sea stands with the Wardens!” 

“Dragon’s Peak supports the Wardens!” 

Baraneth seized Alistair’s hand that gripped hers, pressing close to his shoulder. 

“The Western Hills throw their lot in with the Wardens, Maker help us.” 

Of the two nobles remaining one slammed his hand down on the banister. “I stand with Loghain! We’ve no hope of victory otherwise.” 

And at last, looking around at her fellows, the final noblewoman cast her vote. “I stand with the Wardens. The Blight is coming quickly, we need their aid.” 

Alistair’s grip on her hand became painful, yet she did not pull away even as Loghain wheeled to face them, snarling. “Traitors! Which of you stood against the Orlesian emperor when his troops flattened your fields and raped your wives?” He turned on Eamon. “You fought with us Eamon, you cared about this land once before you got too old and too content to see what you risk. None of you have spilled blood for this land the way I have.” 

“You have lost your support from the Bannorn.” Baraneth called over his raging, ending it as quickly as it started. “Step down  gracefully, Teyrn.” 

“Then let us end this.” He spat, stalking towards her. “We both knew it would come to this. You do not have all the votes. Man is made by the quality of his enemies, Maric told me that once. I wonder if it is more a compliment to you or to me. Let the Landsmeet determine the terms of a duel, as is tradition.” 

The bann of the Waking Sea stepped forward once more, taking command and while Baraneth had never earned the chance to attend Court with her father the Bann had to be one of the most influential. “It shall be fought according to tradition, a test of arms in single combat until one party yields and we who are assembled will abide by the outcome.” 

Loghain bowed his head in reluctant acceptance. “Will you face me yourself, or have you a champion? It is you or me the men will follow, so let us fight for it.” 

Alistair tugged Baraneth’s attention to him, eyes brimming with worry. “Baraneth, let me take up the sword. It is my crown we fight for, I won’t see you in harms way for it.” he said in a hushed whisper.   
“Loghain sees me as the threat here, to fight anyone else will be admitting weakness in his eyes.” Baraneth whispered back, meeting his look steadily. “This is one fight I must take for you alone.” She squeezed his hand, pulling away. “I will stand as champion for the Theirin claim.” 

She unsheathed her sword from the cord around her waist, taking a shield offered to her. It was lighter than the one laying with her Warden’s armor, but it would have to do. That was what they did, make do with the things they were given. It was the essence of their success, their stratagem. 

The battle ended as quickly as it began. Without her armor the flat edged-blows from Loghain’s shield stung her skin and angered her ribs and each slice of his sharpened blade was too close for comfort. But he held none of the untamed ferocity of the darkspawn, it was all strategy and blade games. Games that Baraneth had drilled since she was a child but games that now seemed far too easy when compared to the brutal force that had become her norm. 

His blade clattered on the ground as it fell from his hand, his shield following soon after and he raised his arms, breathless, and slid to a knee. “I yield!  I underestimated you, Cousland. I thought you were like Cailan; a child wanting to play at war.” He stood shakily, eying her as she sheathed her blade once more, breathing sharply. “I was wrong. There is a strength I haven’t seen anywhere since my days with Maric.” 

“It was a honorable fight, Teyrn.” Baraneth agreed, sweeping hair back from her face. “But your crimes are great. You have deceived your country, slain your kinsmen and brought countless horrors down on the elves. Your actions at Ostagar slaughtered an Order and killed your king. For any other your life would be forfeit. Now is no different.” 

“Wait!” Baraneth jerked as Riordan surged from the crowd, stepping between her and Loghain. “There is another option. The Teyrn is a warrior and general of great renown, let him go through the Joining.” 

Her hand tightened on the hilt of her sword, eyes narrowing dangerously. “Are you insane? He hasn’t shown loyalty our cause, he slaughtered the Wardens! He’s committed  _ treason _ .” 

“It was not his hand that shed their blood.” Riordan implored, reaching out as if to knock her sword from her hand. Her blood boiled at the insinuation that it wasn’t his cowardice in retreat that had slaughtered Ferelden’s Warden order. There was no blood on his hands, but that didn’t make him innocent. “With so few of us we need as much blood as possible to fight the archdemon. We do not judge in the Grey Wardens.” 

Anora stepped forward to her father’s side, looking between the three Wardens. “The Joining itself is often fatal, is it not? If he survives you gain a general, if not you have your revenge. Doesn’t that satisfy you?” 

“Absolutely not!” Alistair cried. “Riordan, this man abandoned our brothers and then blamed us for the dead. He hunted us down like animals! He tortured you! Is that the sort of Grey Warden we need?”

“This isn’t about vengeance, Anora.” Baraneth said. “We need loyalty in our ranks, now more than ever. When it comes down to facing the Blight we cannot have the chance of turning tail and running, nor corruption in the fledglings of a new Order. The choice is made.” 

“No!” Anora made a move towards Baraneth, eyes blazing. “You cannot do this. My father may have been wrong, but he is still a hero to the people!”

Doubt crawled its way across her skin, burned away by simmering determination as she looked once more at Loghain. Howe’s death had been one of vengeance and it had brought nothing back to the aching hole in her left by her parents. Loghain...he turned away from his duty, turned his back on his country once before. “Not all heroes remain as such, Anora. Paranoia has twisted your father’s heroism into something it was never meant to be. Besides, there is nothing glorious in becoming a Warden, it only prolongs a pain you cannot fathom.” 

“But must he die for it?” She pleaded. “His crimes may number high but--” 

“Anora, hush.” Loghain brushed his hand against Anora’s cutting her off. “It is done. I will not damn you to a life of suspicion just to save my own.” 

Baraneth turned her face from them, leaving their quiet words between father and daughter. Tears tracked their way down Anora’s cheeks and the last Baraneth saw was her shaking her head. She nodded to the few guards stationed at the doors. “Sers, please take our lady Anora aside. She does not need to see this.” 

Anora left quietly, head bowed, hands clasped close to her chest. The Bannorn made no move to oppose their judgement. 

“Alistair,” Baraneth reached for him, dragging his attention away from the door closing behind Anora. “This is your beginning. If this is what you feel is right then it is your move to make.” 

“Just make it quick.” Loghain said. “I can face the Maker, knowing that Ferelden is in your hands.” 

Baraneth turned her cheek away when the final blow was delivered, holding her breath. She was always told it was a coward’s move to turn your eyes from a kil, but somehow seeing the satisfaction--as if Loghain had won some hidden game--in his eyes as the sword fell rang like some sick sort of validation. The guards came forward to remove the body, the room quiet with only the soft jangle of armor against the floor, and she fixed her eyes on the vaulted ceilings, her breaths shallow. Ferelden may start with a clean slate and the law may be the law and yet...it didn’t keep the iron tang in the air from roiling her stomach. 

Finally Eamon cleared his throat, the railing under his hands squeaking as he shifted his weight. She brought her eyes back to the Landsmeet and with a start she found Anora, standing off to the side once more. Her eyes were dry, her jaw set. 

“So it is decided, Alistair will take his father’s throne. Anora, the Landsmeet has decided against you. You must now swear away all claims to the throne for yourself or your heirs, if you truly yield.” Eamon was saying as Baraneth forced the muffling in her ears to fade. 

Anora’s jaw twitched before she bowed her head. For a split second there was a challenge in her eyes before it snuffed out.  “I swear by the Maker that I relinquish all claim to the throne and when the time comes I will swear fealty to my king. Though know that there was a better way.” 

“The Crown will see that you remain within your noble birthright.” Baraneth said before even she knew what the idea was, though she felt the shocked eyes on her as she stepped closer to the angry, hurting woman. “I know it is little consolation but it will see you reinstated to your father’s teyrnir of Gwaren.  For now you will be kept in Denerim, under guard and nothing else.”

Anora offered the smallest of nods, shifting her gaze from Baraneth’s to the floor. “Very well.” 

“Your highness, would you address the Landsmeet?” Eamon prodded, trying to shove Baraneth back onto whatever plan he had constructed. Then she realized that it wasn’t her being spoken to. 

Alistair jumped, as if shocked to be addressed and Baraneth couldn’t help her wry smile when she looked at him. He would need to get used to living in the eye of Ferelden with their victory here. “Oh! That would be me.. Right.” 

He stepped away from their tight knit group and immediately the attention of the Bannorn snapped wholly to him. “I never knew my father, but from all that I have heard of him what defined him was his commitment to protecting this land. I...we..” He cast around for Baraneth, seizing her hand in his own. “I, with Baraneth Cousland at my side as my queen, will strive to do the same.” 

Strength and certainty flowed back into his voice and a smattering of cheers broke out among the assembled, growing in volume until they all but eclipsed Alistair’s rising shout. “Everyone get read to march. It’s going to take all of Ferelden’s strength to survive the Blight. But we will face it! And we will defeat it!” 


	2. Prologue Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Baraneth and Alistair return to their friends with the taste of victory sweet on their lips, only for it to be soured as a reminder of the Blight looms over them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Laurel--Ruinel's sister--belongs to my friend delavairesslegacy over on tumblr <3

**_Prologue (Part II)_ **

_9:31 Dragon_

“You’ve done it!” Ruinel sprinted over to them as they strode from the main hall hand in hand. She threw her arms around Baraneth in a hug, rocking them wildly as they overbalanced. When she drew back an elated smile spread across her face and without missing more than a beat she threw herself at Alistair, her small stature that barely reached his shoulder almost knocking them back several steps. Alistair’s eyes snapped to Baraneth in shock--the elf had never truly warmed up to him--before awkwardly putting his arms around her, patting her back in little taps. “I knew you could do it!”

“Not without your help.” Baraneth said pointedly, sweeping the elf back into a hug when she freed herself from Alistair’s awkward grip. “Why didn’t you tell me you got Anora to reconsider? And that’s ignoring that I told you to stay back with the others; more than three Wardens could have made it seem like a Warden driven coup.”

Ruinel’s pointed ears twitched at the admonishment and she shrugged. “I didn’t convince her until late last night. Even then I just told her the things we’ve seen her father do, what we experienced firsthand. Somehow she believed me. And she’d only agree to speak if I was here. I figured it’d be better to let you handle it as you had already planned and just let my part happen in the pauses in between.” Her arms tightened around Baraneth’s middle and she winced at the pressure. As her adrenaline faded the aches and pains in her body started to make themselves known.

“Though why did you have to fight Loghain? For a moment I thought…” she let the thought trail off in a discontented hum, pressing her forehead against her shoulder.

“You need to have more faith in me.” she scolded, cutting her eyes between Ruinel and Alistair. Ruinel looked down, Alistair just met her look squarely with some mix of affection and lingering worry.  “You both need to.” she addressed Alistair, scolding easing back into affection. “But the tides didn’t change until you spoke, love. And you tell me you know nothing about ruling or speaking to a crowd.”

Alistair sheepishly grinned, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “I don’t know what happened there, I guess it was just..there. I don’t know how to find it again.”

She beamed at him, hooking an arm through Ruinel’s when she pulled away and grabbing Alistair’s hand tightly with her free one. “You were _amazing_. I knew you had it in you.”

Eamon had dismissed them from the room, shooing them back to his estate as the remaining nobles and he discussed and argued out the final result of the Landsmeet for the books, refusing to let them stay. Something about technicalities and tradition and while Baraneth wanted to remain in the thick of things the draw back to the friendly faces of their group was strong.

“We need to go tell the others, I’m sure they’ll be pleased.” Alistair seemed to read her thoughts, looking longingly to the doors that led back into the freedom of Denerim’s streets.

“Oh pleased is one word for it.” Baraneth couldn’t keep herself from scoffing. “I think they’ll be damn well beside themselves that the Landsmeet caved to us. Or highly disappointed that we weren’t able to sow chaos.”

“Hey!” Ruinel protested, tugging Baraneth’s arm in complaint. “Only Shale said that you should diminish the Landsmeet to start anew and they’re just grumpy about everything. You would be too if birds had shat on you for years.”

“The Ferelden government aren’t _birds_ .” She broke in indignantly. “I had mabari pups chew up my favorite childhood toys and you don’t see me using that to be grumpy for years and plot anarchy.” She tried her best to hold up a trapped hand in surrender when Ruinel narrowed her eyes dangerously. She had forgotten the liking the golem had taken to the elf and vice versa and how touchy Shale was about their state of existence. It was as if Ruinel had become a paladin for the golem’s honor.  “I know, I _know_ , not exactly the same thing but I’m a  little concerned that I won’t be able to fend off an anarchist in the form of a golem.”  

Nonetheless, by the time they burst into the main hall of Eamon’s estate the blundering conversation was all but forgotten. Ruinel dropped her hold on her arm, pushing the doors open with an extravagant flair.

“They’ve done it!” she cried and much to Baraneth’s chagrin she found that their friends had already been waiting around, practically crowding the door for their return. The only one who was absent was Morrigan, and she couldn’t exactly label that a misfortune.

“Just like that? You’re king and queen? _Hah_ , what’s your first edict going to be, your royal Wardenness?” Laurel exclaimed, zeroing in on Alistair. “It better be something nice to her royal queenliness. Like a whole continent. You Ferelden monarchs can do that, right?”

“Maker’s breath please tell me you don’t want a whole continent.” Alistair deadpanned, turning wide eyes on Baraneth, his expression cracking back into a smile as soon as she grinned up at him with a shake of her head.

“A continent is far too much to manage, maybe we should start with a hill, or perhaps a mountain.”

“Even better!” Alistair projected his voice across their little crowd. “Did you hear that? My queen wants a little hill named after her. And she shall receive it, for _she_ ,” in one swoop of his arm he circled her, crushing her back against him. “Was an amazing, beautiful, _terrifying_ noblewoman today who turned the Landsmeet completely to our side.”

Looping her hand over Alistiar’s, Baraneth rolled her eyes, embarrassment heating up her cheeks. “If I recall your speech was the one that turned the Bannorn’s eyes to us. And it was _Ruinel_ who somehow tied it all together.” Accusingly she looked Laurel, jabbing a finger at her. “Did you know about that?”

Laurel looked between them before her eyes went wide and she turned to her sister, hands planted on her hips. “Is _that_ what you were doing when you went to go speak to Anora last night?”

Ruinel shrugged, ducking her head. She doubted the young elf was truly rebuked by their scoldings, not from the little barely-there grin that quirked her lips up at the corners. “I did. I’m sorry that I went behind your back, but it felt like the right thing to do.” Her voice softened. “And it worked.”

“You’re choice did save all our hides; it swayed the bannorn to our side.” Alistair’s smile seemed to relax something in Ruinel’s shoulders, the guarded way she usually regarded the human easing to an bashful smile. “But I don’t think you’re all here to listen to a recounting of the Landsmeet; you just want the ale.”

The cheers and nods that followed weren’t even the least bit sympathetic or ashamed.

* * *

  


“Baraneth, can I talk to you?” The courtyard was cool against her face, burning from the attention of all their companions and the heat of the hearths burning in the room they had all but requisitioned for their celebration as she followed Alistair out into the open. The moon shone bright above them, spilling white light across the courtyard with the stars twinkling happily. Along the pathway sconces burned, alighting the area in a warm golden glow.

Alistair fidgeted as he stopped, turning to face her. He wouldn’t look at her directly and  her heart sank deep in her stomach and she started to pull away. “Alistair, are you angry?”

He startled, jerking his head up to look at her. “Angry? No! Most people just try to spread out becoming king and becoming engaged over more than one day.”

“I’m sorry...if you don’t wish..we had..” Unable to hold his eyes she looked at the grass, shuffling her feet back and forth. Uncertaiinty crowded her mind; maybe with the euphoria from their victory starting to fade he was having second thoughts about their choice to face this together.  Alistair’s hand was gentle cupping under her jaw as he drew her chin up, eyes softening.

“I know, Bara. We spoke on this, I knew what I was agreeing to, I _chose_ to agree. Maker knows it’s just a lot for one oaf to process.” His voice dropped, husky and shy.

“But that isn’t why I brought you out here. If we’re announcing our engagement to the Landsmeet...if we’re committing...if..oh Maker’s balls--” Stumbling over himself he finally shook his head, cradling her face reverently as he gathered himself. “What I mean to say is that there is no one I would rather have at my side in ruling Ferelden than you. Today was...remarkable. _You_ were remarkable. But I don’t just want the Baraneth Cousland from today.

“I want the beautiful Grey Warden standing in front of me, the woman who I sometimes think prefers her Mabari to me--which is valid--” They both laughed and Baraneth brought her hands up, curling her fingers over his calloused ones. “To walk alongside. And now I’m rambling so, Bara, what I’m trying to ask, officially, is, will you marry me?”

She nodded, the tears gathering in her eyes swept away by the pads of Alistair’s thumbs before her hands seized his collar, crashing their lips together. “I will gladly pledge myself to your side, Alistair. Kingdom or no.” She whispered in the air between them.  

“Oh, how sweet!”

Alistair groaned, dropping his forehead to the top of Baraneth’s head as the Orlesian accented voice broke the still air. Leliana leaned out of one of the archways lining the courtyard, their party gathered behind her as if watching an Orlesian ballet. Ruinel bounced on her toes alongside the bard, her hands over her mouth.

“I wanted to do this without an audience.” Alistair complained.

“You best get used to it!” Leliana sing-songed and Baraneth hid her face against Alistair’s neck, feeling her face burning once more even as she croaked out a feeble laugh. “And you can’t expect to slip away from the celebration of _your_ victory unnoticed!”

They shared a look, unspoken words left between them that needed to come to light. “We’ll be in in a moment.” Alistair called pointedly, shooing their onlookers away.

“Don’t tell me you need a chaperone.” Laurel shouted from the back of the group. “You handle yourselves with _royal conduct_!”

“Shut up!” Ruinel shushed, whipping around towards her sister and almost stumbling over the archway’s half-wall in the process. “Let them have their _moment!_ ”

When they were once again alone Alistair chuckled, shaking his head. “Not exactly how I imagined this going. I always imagined something simple, something without all these eyes on us. If I ever _had_ imagined it.”

“That was never going to be an option for me.” Baraneth admitted. “While marriage was my choice it was always going to be a grand affair, nothing with teyrns and nobility is anything else. And I think my father always wanted to celebrate his little pup’s big moment.” A thought crossed her mind and she gasped. “But we could still have that! The simplicity.”

“I...how? It isn’t like we can walk into Denerim’s palace and tell the Landsmeet ‘Oh, sorry, we’ve decided we don’t want you all here. Our first royal decree is for you to leave.’. We can’t do that….can we?”

Shaking her head with a giggle, Baraneth rushed to get the thought out. “No, but nothing said we had to be married only in the royal ceremony. There’s no law directly saying we can’t be married _before_ that.” Alistair eyed her in confusion and she continued, trying to get him to connect the remaining pieces. “If we were to find a Chantry mother  willing to dictate a ceremony for us we could have one last moment for _us_. No royal strings attached.”

Understanding dawned across Alistair’s face and he swept her into his arms, spinning them around in a circle. “You’re brilliant! Oh, you mischievous, brilliant, rule breaking woman!”

“Is that a yes?” She laughed, wrapping her arms tight around him even when he set her back on the ground. “I bet we could do it.”

“We can do _anything_. But to do this without the nobles staring at us and the stifling collars...yes.”

“It will need to be tomorrow if we could pull it off. I want to do this before…” She hesitated. “Before we need to fight. It’ll be difficult to pull together.”

“It would make me happy even if we stood beneath a statue of Andraste and asked her to officiate. Hell, a statute of Andraste’s mabari. A _real_ mabari.”

“Even if it’s just us, armor and all?”

“Even if it’s armor and all.” Alistair smiled at her, beaming. “Bara, I need nothing to bind myself to you other than your word.”

“Then we’ll do it.” Baraneth said giddily. “We’ll find someone, anyone, just so that we can!”

“Just for us.” Alistair pressed a kiss to her forehead, then to her cheek so that he could whisper in her ear. “Now maybe we should go back in. I think they’ve still been eavesdropping.”

Cutting her eyes to the side, Baraneth saw a suspicious shadow dart by the doorway. “We shouldn’t keep them waiting.”

She stepped back, seizing his hand in her own and practically dragged him back through the door. Their friends were all suspiciously gathered at the table in various states of lounging, chattering amongst themselves too innocently to not have been listening in in some part. “We’re getting married!”

The chatter ceased as every eye turned to them and it was Ruinel who finally broke the silence tentatively. “Aren’t...aren’t you doing that already?”

Pausing, Baraneth frowned and nodded. “I...well, yes. But on our own terms. We aren’t going to wait for the royal ceremony.”

“Ah, so you are breaking the rules.” Zevran supplied, lounging with his arm around Laurel’s shoulders and nodding sagely. “I knew you weren’t the perfect little leader you like to pretend you are.”

Leliana slammed her hands down on the table, shaking the cups that were laid out, making near everyone jump. “You’ll need a Chantry mother! I bet I can..convince one of the revered Mothers to spare some time.” she said with a grin, looking at the pair. “You two are getting _married_. If that isn’t more a reason to celebrate than I don’t know what would be.”

In the blink of an eye cups were being filled again and raised in the air, two shoved into Alistair and Baraneth’s hands and nearly slopping down their fronts.

“To the king and queen of Ferelden!”

“And to their marriage!”

Any celebratory toasts after that were drowned out by hoots and hollers and the sloshing of drinks in mugs and the celebration devolved into a somewhat organized chaos that no one seemed to want to control.

It ended as quickly as it began, almost as soon as the taps were going Riordan knocked on the door frame, fixing the Grey Wardens of the group with a dark look. “As much as I hate to take away from your victory,  there is a matter we must speak on.”

Things seemed to freeze for a second between all the Wardens, though the celebration around them went on unencumbered.

“Of course.” Baraneth pushed back from the table, glancing at Alistair with a raised eyebrow, which he met with a shrug and a wary look sent towards Riordan. “You guys can continue celebrating, we’ll be back.”

“Actually,” Riordan gestured to the Ruinel and Laurel. “I need to speak to _all_ the Wardens.”

“...alright.” Ruinel said carefully, shoulder to shoulder with her sister as they picked their way carefully through the litter of chairs across the floor. “We’ll all go then.”

When heavy oak door closing behind them the loud, slightly drunk conversations from their friends was muffled, leaving them in a quiet that settled heavy across Baraneth’s shoulders.

Dread knotted in her chest as Riordan led them upstairs. He closed the door behind them with a soft _clink_ and looked at them with something akin to what Baraneth could only describe as mournful.

“Our chance to take down the archdemon is fast approaching.” He began, pacing in front of the fireplace with his hands behind his back, hardly giving them a chance to settle into the room. They all gathered in a tight group, none of them straying far from the door.

He inclined his head respectfully to Alistair and Baraneth. “Winning the support of the Landsmeet was part of that, with Ferelden’s nobles now looking to a new power the threat of civil war can be put aside to focus on the Blight; with little time to spare. But that isn’t why I brought you here.”

“I know that we need to plan.” Baraneth began, already preparing reasons for why they needed to take the night to breath. They had been going nonstop for months, burning themselves out before their final fight was only asking for fatal mistakes to be made.  “But tonight…”

Tonight they were supposed to celebrate their victory at the Landsmeet, that was supposed to mean they were one step closer to the end of the long road they had been walking ever since Ostagar.

Riordan held up a hand to stop her. “There’s only so much we can plan, the peace is set to break two days from now as it is. Tomorrow will be a day to refine as much as we can. But if I wanted to talk planning, then I would have brought in all of the troops and their officers.”

“As Grey Wardens you already know that it is our responsibility to kill the archdemon. But it isn’t just our Order’s prerogative. We are the only ones who _can_ kill the beast. Archdemons are Old Gods, tainted by the Blight, you I hope, know this. Darkspawn can hear it because they themselves are tainted. We can hear it because--”

“Because of the taint in our own blood.” Ruinel finished softly. “I can hear it whisper to me in quiet moments.”

“Quite right.” Riordan nodded. “The taint in our blood allows us to connect with the archdemon, just as the darkspawn do. But it is more than that. When an archdemon is killed their essence moves to another tainted being and their darkspawn are practically empty cups for it to fill; so long as it has an army of darkspawn then it is essentially immortal.”

The pieces were drifting into place for Baraneth and her eyes widened, her stomach sinking to the floor. “You aren’t suggesting that if a Grey Warden kills the archdemon that it will defeat it? Would that not kill both Warden and dragon?”

“You’re a smart woman, I wonder if you sometimes consider that a curse. Unlike a darkspawn a Grey Warden has a soul. If the archdemon’s soul tries to infect our taint it is destroyed. As are we.”

Baraneth’s breath left her in a sharp exhalation and she ran her hands through her hair, pacing a few steps away so that she didn’t have to look at Riordan’s somber look. From the corner of her eye she saw Laurel reach for Ruinel, wrapping her arms around her shoulders, turning them both away.

“So one of us has to die.” Alistair said flatly.

“I hope that it doesn’t come to that.” she turned back around as Riordan, voice heavy, stilled his own pacing. “As senior Warden it falls to me to land the final blow, I am the closest to my own Calling. But it was only fair for you to know, I know that for some of you, your knowledge of the Order is dismal at best.”

She crossed her arms tight across her chest, not returning the few steps she had paced away. “Is there not another way? Some way that won’t end in more death?”

Though she braced herself for the denial her skin crawled when Riordan shook his head. “Through four Blights we’ve yet to find another way. There isn’t the time to find one one to end the fifth.”

“I don’t tell you this to put the responsibility on you.” he continued. “That is _mine_ , I press that upon you. But if the tide of the battle were to shift then you have a right to know what must be done.”

“In death, sacrifice.” Alistair intoned, something she couldn’t identify twisting across his face. It was almost angry, bitter. “It’s going to end in sacrifice either way.”

The heavy, bloated pause was answer enough and it pressed down on her. To end the Blight someone was going to lose their life, whether it was the four of them or one of the last remaining senior Wardens in Ferelden. They were so _close_ and just now the catch was appearing.

“I shouldn’t hold you back from your friends any longer.” Riordan finally said when none of them spoke, refusing to look at each other. “Tomorrow will be a heavy day.”

Just as they had entered, the door clicked shut behind Riordan with a sharp click, leaving them in a suffocating quiet. Baraneth scuffed the ground with the toe of her boot, trying to draw a deep breath she didn’t have. A vice was slowly closing on her chest.

In her peripheral someone straightened and her head followed the movement. Ruinel had squared her shoulders, every line of her posture straight and sharp.

“Let me take the final blow.” she looked forcefully between her sister and friends, jaw set. “If anyone should do it, it’s me.”

“Ruinel, I’m not letting you do that.” Laurel growled without pause, hardly seeming to have let Ruinel’s words leave the air before speaking. “I won’t lose my sister to that...that _thing_!”

Baraneth agreed, snapping. Bitterness at the catch laid at their feet mixed with a sudden surge of fear that gathered in her chest. “Absolutely not, you aren’t going to die for Ferelden.”

“Why not?” Ruinel raked her hands through her hair, glaring at Baraneth and Laurel.  “Someone has to do it, and it shouldn’t be any of you.”

“Because you’re nineteen.” Laurel hissed, fear striking across her face. “Ru, you’re-”

Baraneth went to step forward, to mediate with words she didn’t have when Ruinel scoffed, harsh and grating. Something within the young mage was breaking, something that none of them were understanding and the frustration seemed to permeate the air around her.

“As if that matters! We’re all young! I don’t have a place here. I’m an elf, but not Dalish. Not anymore. And I’m a mage, and a…a blood mage at that, I’ll never be trusted as   _maleficar_ and I can’t go back to the Circle, not after everything.” she threw up her hands, furiously yanking up the sleeve with one hand, gesturing between the thin scar marks littered from nicks and scratches to fuel her blood magic, then to her elegantly pointed ears like they were end all explanations.

“Both of these damn me! Laurel you can still return to our Clan. Baraneth, Alistair you both have a nation to lead. Ferelden can’t survive without you.”

“Your place can be with the Wardens, with me, with Leliana.” Laurel took a step forward even as Baraneth reeled back. She wanted to reach for her, shelter her from whatever raging thoughts drove her to think she was worth sacrificing to the archdemon. Her sister hovered around her, seeming completely at a loss. “Please, Ru, I don’t want to lose my sister. I don’t want to lose you again.”  

Laurel then dragged in a rough breath, pressing the back of her hand over her mouth, looking at her sister with wide, pleading eyes. Alistair, who had frozen behind Baraneth, spoke softly, startling them all as he walked forward. Ruinel watched him warily, eyes darting around them all before fixing entirely on him. She looked like she was ready to leap away.

“Ru, we aren’t deciding anything with the archdemon.” He held out his hands placatingly and for a moment Ruinel’s guard dropped and something miserable passed through her eyes. Then her hand slapped Alistair’s away viciously, voice rising.

“You aren’t _listening_!” she shouted, voice cracking. “Riordan said it has to be a warden who kills the archdemon, and someone needs to strike the final blow if he fails. Don’t tell me we aren’t making a decision because we’re going to have to make one and soon, whether we like it or not. You can’t guarantee things won’t go wrong. The Blight won’t wait for you to find some other scapegoat to use just because you aren’t willing to do the duty given to us as Grey Wardens.”

Laurel bristled and Alistair retreated, reeling back from the conflict he wasn’t used to confronting, placing a hand on Baraneth’s shoulder as if he was planning on holding her back  and she flinched. Holding her back from what, she didn’t know. All words she had thought she had during the Landsmeet were gone, but even now she wasn’t sure that this was a conflict between Wardens, or a conflict between sisters.

“This is about duty?” Laurel repeated, tear tracks glistening on her cheeks. “Look me in the eyes and tell me again that this has to do with duty!”

Ruinel glared between them, lower lip wobbling and her brows drawing together until she looked away with a sharp breath through her nose. There was something she wanted them to understand but Baraneth couldn’t find it and from the silence of the two Wardens alongside her they weren’t either.

“Look,” she said lowly. “You may not agree with it, but the Blight is coming to Denerim and from what I’ve heard when you think I’m not listening we’re going to be hard pressed to beat it. Just remember what you all have to lose.” Scrubbing her hands across her eyes she turned on her heel and stalked from the room. Laurel paused, stunned, before taking off after her, disappearing around the corner in a frenzy.

“Ru! Ruinel!”

The room was quiet without the two sister’s argument and Alistair pressed a hand across his eyes, a breath heaving his shoulders up and then down as Baraneth began to pace, trying to expend some of the nervous energy that she could feel trembling in her knees and hands.

Already she was running through what the coming battle would bring, some way to spare the elven sisters the pain of losing each other again, to save them all from that pain. Any plan, any way that they could work around Riordan's confession in the _what if_. It was always a ‘what if’.

There was nothing that came to her except for one thing, the one teaching that her tutors had impressed on her ever since she had first been able to recognize that she was a Cousland above all else. To talk about duty was to throw her own childhood teachings back at her feet and when it was her staring them down through the eyes of a terrified girl...she didn’t know how to face them except to take them on as her own.

“Alistair….I think I need to...if Riordan fails.” She breathed, chest tightening. A weight had settled there without her knowledge, crushing her lungs to flat plates. What other choice was there? Ruinel had had a point; their obligations rose far above their station as Wardens now after the Blight ended.

“Not you too.” Alistair said roughly, staring at the spot Ruinel had disappeared through. “ _Don’t_.”

“I can’t let Ruinel take it. I can’t let _Laurel_. They’re sisters, they’ve only just been reunited.”

“And you think you’re any better to take it? We have to believe Riordan won’t fail.”

Baraneth pressed the heels of her hands hard against her forehead, hoping she could press away the revelation or perhaps find some of Alistair's staunch optimism, shaking her head.

“If he _does_ fail? I…” she hissed a breath from behind her teeth, the words dragging from her. She didn’t want to die, she didn’t want to face down the archdemon, but she couldn’t let anyone else die in her stead. She couldn’t let Ruinel. She wouldn’t be able to live with the knowledge that she could have stopped it.  “If not me then _who_? The Landsmeet has been decided, that rules you out.” She’d never be able to live with herself if Alistair was killed. No matter how much she told herself she would be able to pick herself up and continue on strong.  

“You told me you would stay by my side.” Alistair reminded her, staring at her with an intensity she hadn’t seem aimed at her before. “Maker knows it’s selfish, but I am _tired_ of being self _less_ , I don’t want to lose you.”

“Would you see Ruinel fall instead? She seems damn well set on taking that blow herself.” Dropping her voice, Baraneth rocked from side to side, face buried in her hands. She didn’t think she’d be able to bear the guilt if she knowingly let the young girl die just so that they could have their happy ending.

“She’s so _young_ . We’re all so young.” Anger burned through her veins and she grit her teeth. “It’s all so unfair! We didn’t ask for this, any of it and we were so _close_.”

Alistair sighed audibly and she dropped her hands from her face to look over at him, frown lines deepening. “You know that I don’t want to see anything happen to Ru.” He said, eyes fixed hard on the ground. “But I think you underestimate how set she is in her own mind.”

“You don’t think she’d give anyone the chance to take it for her.”

Alistair shrugged helplessly. “I think she understands more than we give her credit for, and I think she believes that there’s only one way for this to end.” he shook his head with a croaking laugh that was a broken sound of defeat. “She won’t let anyone else take the blow if it comes down from it, least of all you. You should see the way she looks at you, how much she loves you.” His eyes went distant and his voice dropped until she had to step closer to hear it.

“I know you, I know how determined you are and I love you dearly for it but...I don’t want to lose you. It’s far too much to ask but I don’t know if I can lead Ferelden alone.”

Without words she crossed the room ,wrapping her arms around Alistair and rested her head against his shoulder. She couldn’t make that promise...she couldn’t. But she didn’t want to face that, she wanted to hide in his orbit where it was safe, where it had always been safe. And maybe he could hide in hers. “I…”

His arms went around her, warm against the chill that seemed to have seeped into her bones. “I know what you’re going to say.” She felt him shaking as he tightened his hold on her. “Please don’t say it.”

She didn’t speak and a muffled noise broke from Alistair’s throat, even as she clung to him tighter and pressed her face harder against his shoulder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Kudos and comments are always appreciated <3
> 
> Feel free to come shout at me over on tumblr at captainderyn; I will happily shout about just about anything and post a lot of extra ficlets of the idiots in this story!
> 
> I will be trying to update this fic between Thursdays and Fridays schedules allowing so...look out for the next chapter next week!


	3. Chapter One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With the Blight looming ever closer Baraneth and Alistair take one last moment to bind themselves together, giving them and their friends one last reason to celebrate.

_**Chapter**   **One**_

_9:31 Dragon_

Baraneth squawked in protest as the map of Denerim that was now a muddle of lines and place names the longer she stared at it was covered in small surface by Ruinel’s hands, her eyes snapping up to meet the elf’s dark ones, gleaming in the sunlight filtering through the windows overhead. “You’ve been planning for long enough, it’s time to  _ take a break _ .” She raised her eyebrows insistently, emphasizing the words enough that a fleeting thought in Baraneth’s mind was that thank the Maker Eamon, Sir Perth and Riordan didn’t pay much heed to the youngest Grey Warden. 

As if Baraneth could forget what today was meant to be. Alistair had already been dragged away on at the charming insistence of Zevran--though Baraneth had a sneaking suspicion that as much as Eamon had pushed for Alistair to take the throne of Ferelden the poor man’s helplessness with widespread military strategy was testing the limits of his patience. But Alistair would learn. 

They would learn. Together. 

The thought made her giddy and she forced a faux-irritated sigh of exasperation, sending a sly grin over at Ruinel and taking her hands gently, placing them on the rough wooden table so she could fold up that map. “I believe that’s my cue, my lords, good sirs.” She said, nodding to each man in turn. They nodded back, none the wiser to her and Alistair’s true intention for leaving, ducking their heads together over another map without pause. 

Without giving her time to ponder the soundness of leaving the eve of a battle, and it was the deciding eve of the Blight--the knowledge that darkspawn marched ever towards them, the archdemon at its head even after the massacring of the blighted creatures at Redcliffe, drew heavily on her mind--Ruinel seized her wrist and dragged her out of the dimly lit study. Down the halls they went, all but skipping even as Baraneth began to stutter to a halt. “Ru, where are we going the courtyard is that way--?” 

Giving her a once-over over her shoulder Ruinel shook her head,  _ tsk _ -ing her tongue.  “Your armor doesn’t work, Bara, nor does walking out in your small clothes. I believe your Chantry mother would have a fit.” 

“I don’t  _ have  _ anything else.” she protested. “It wasn’t as though I packed a bag to Ostagar.” 

It was true, none of them had had anything other than the armor on their backs, any other underclothes, shirts, or trousers they had accumulated were by now in poor condition and had been purchased off the wares of merchants. 

“Just hush and follow me.” Before long Ruinel was pushing the door into her room open with her hip, blocking Baraneth’s way in as though her smaller stature could hide anything or stop her. “Consider this a change of pace from the whole ‘warrior’ thing.” 

“Don’t tease her, Ru! Just let her in.” the elf’s sister, Laurel, called from inside the room, voice shaking, blooming into full laughter as Baraneth stepped into the room. 

The room itself was much the same; a wooden framed bed upholstered in deep red tones sat in the corner, the fire blazed merrily in the hearth to ward off the growing Ferelden chill. What was usually the heady scent of mabari, leather, and smoldering wood was replaced with the sweet perfume of flowers and her eyes drifted first to the small woven basket by Laurel’s feet, brimming with forget-me-nots, gillyflowers and blue violets, their petals shedding lightly onto the floor and their rich blue petals and pale alabaster vibrant. The Dalish elf cleared her throat, nodding her head over to the bed and when Baraneth’s eyes followed she let out a small gasp. A dress was laid out on the covers; it was a simple, common dress, with a flowing white undershirt, soft leather corset, and patchwork skirt in subdued, earthy tones. It wasn’t hers, it wasn’t magnificent. 

But it was perfect. 

“Leliana threatened death if you were married in your armor.” Laurel supplied as she lifted her eyes, a hand over her mouth. She smiled, seeing the emotion shining in her eyes. “She said you deserve the chance to feel pretty, like a real lady.” 

“And we’re in charge of that.” Ruinel added, touching a hand between her shoulder blades to guide her further into the room. “Leliana went to coerce  the Chantry mother.” 

Baraneth pressed her fingertips to the corners of her eyes, voice wobbling. “You guys...you don’t have to do this. Armor is just fine.” She gave a watery laugh as Laurel scoffed, turning a can-you-believe-her look to her sister. 

“ _ Leliana  _ said you get to be a lady miss Cousland.” Laurel enunciated pointedly, waving a hand at her armor. “That comes off. Ma asa’ma’lin can you work on the flowers?” 

Nodding brightly, Ruinel plopped down by the basket, pulling flowers and their stems from the basket and beginning to weave them together into a looping circlet. “Gillyflower for adoration, blue violet for the future,” she singsonged as Baraneth began unbuckling the straps of her breastplate. “And forget-me-nots for true love. They were a bear to find but...you and Alistair need to have crowns after all.” 

Stripped of her breastplate and beginning to work off the chainmail tunic underneath she paused. “We need what..?” 

“Crowns.” Laurel supplied, shooting a mischievous look over her shoulder from where she was loosening the knots of the corset. “Of flowers, of course.” She abandoned the corset and grabbed the undershirt, with it’s long, flowing sleeves and pleated chest. “If you keep stalling I’m going to take your sword and cut it off.” 

“It’s off, it’s off.” Hastily she resumed pulling her armor off, placing it on the floor and her tunic, trousers and boots after it. In only her underclothes shame perhaps should have burned through her, but if there was one thing the Blight was good for it was blurring the lines of propriety and taking any shame away. She accepted the tunic, pulling it over her head and letting the flowing fabric settle. The textured and widely dipped  collar of the florentine neckline left her collarbones and parts of her shoulders free of the weight of the fabric. She hated that it felt strange after so many months of heavy armor and self consciously she tugged at it. Laurel battled her hands away, skirt draped over her arm. “Let it be. These may not exactly fit, but well, Isolde’s maidens seemed willing enough to find something for you when we told them about you and Alistair. I should say they were  _ smitten  _ with your love story.” 

“Smitten?” Baraneth spluttered, even as she stepped into the skirt and tucked the tunic in, securing it with cloth ties. “What is that supposed to mean?” 

Laurel’s amused voice whispered against her neck as she helped position the corset--secured by Baraneth’s hands splayed across it until she started to tie it. “Tell me when it’s tight enough--they find your engagement positively romantic. I should say--sorry--” she added when Baraneth sucked in a sharp breath as the corset yanked a bit too tight. “The Dalish don’t exactly use these things. I should say you already have much of Denerim behind you after the Landsmeet.” 

“They shouldn’t get too excited.” Baraneth muttered. “There’s still the Blight to contend with.” 

The dark, long tresses of her hair fell heavy down her back as Laurel undid the leather tie holding it back, admonishing her. “It gives them  _ hope _ , Bara. Just as this does for you.” 

Her mouth went dry. This wasn’t for hope, she and Alistair agreed that  if the peace was going to shatter into blood the following morn they were going to live now, and bind themselves together before it ended. By some blessing they made it through the battle then it would be their last personal moments before stepping into the eyes of the entirety of Thedas. Hope wasn’t even the half of it.  

Laurel swooped in front of her, hands dragging up to cup her chin, tilting it up from its slope towards the ground. Understanding passed through her expression and without missing a beat she dropped her hands to fluff Baraneth’s hair back from her shoulders. “Come, sit. We’re going to make you the little farm  _ shem  _ you were never allowed to be.” She grinned, though it didn’t reach her eyes--in fact there was a warning there as she tilted her chin ever so slightly towards Ruinel. The younger elf had worked her way through most of the basket, one flower crown sitting at her feet, the other mostly braided in her hands. 

They both knew as well as the other that there was no hiding the darker connotation of today from the mage, but the warning was there: don’t plunge her deeper into the shadow she had shed for the day.  Especially after the night previous. Baraneth gave a small nod, taking a breath to still her expression, and gathered her skirts to sit in the stool all but shoved towards her. 

“What to do,” Laurel mused, running her fingers through it, parting any tangles she reached. “Well, knowing your Chantry it will be down and covered when you marry under royal law, so let’s do..ah!” An idea struck her and her fingers began working insistently at a handful of her hair, braiding it around from one side to the other. Within minutes her hair rested in two parts on either side of her shoulders, loosely held by thinner strands coiled around it. It reminded her a bit of the young girls she would see working the farms around Highever, with the ribbons in their hair on celebration days. 

All that was left for her to do was pull on her boots, lacing them tightly before Ruinel bounced to her feet, one of the flower crowns held delicately in her hands. “May I?” 

With a widening smile Bara tilted her head forward. “You may.” 

The light weight of the flowers and stems settled atop her head, resting partly over her brow, and Ruinel gave a small curtsey with her non-existent skirts. “You are ready, my lady.”

Hearing the title from her dearest friend’s lips dragged a chill down her spine like the scratch of nails and a plea not to say that again was sharp in her mind before she glanced up and found the sparkle of mischief in her eyes. A hoarse laugh scratched from her throat as the tension drained from her shoulders and she accepted Ruinel’s extended hand to be pulled to her feet, letting herself be pushed over the the one mirror in the room, a waved-glass fixture leaned dangerously on the wall over a small tub used for water. 

She didn’t look like herself, not the woman she had been for the last year in the wilderness, nor was she the hardened woman from the Landsmeet. The face looking back at her had the giddy girlness she remembered so painfully from Highever now that it was gone. 

It took a hand pressed painfully hard over her eyes to stay the tears that brewed there, even as Ruinel placed an arm around her shoulders, resting her chin on her shoulder. 

“I’m sure they would be happy for you.” She offered in a soft voice, meeting her eyes when she let her hand drop to her skirts, smoothing out the nonexistent wrinkled. 

“I…” Guilt bloomed in her throat that she hadn’t truly been thinking of her parents being there to witness today, instead she had been preoccupied at seeing herself beneath a veneer of grime and strength that had been secured in place for far too long. Her parents were still with her, they haunted her every step, but long ago she had silently decided that to do anything other than place that pain far back in her mind was to let herself be consumed. “I think they would be too.” 

Her mother would be over the moon that she was finally marrying, perhaps even pleasantly surprised that she had fallen in love with  the last of the Theirin line. Papa....Papa would have clapped Alistair on the shoulder and accepted him into the family as soon as the first quip had passed between them. 

A lump began building in her throat again and she sucked in a deep breath, picking up and dropping her skirts while staring hard at her reflection. “Perhaps we should head out? You’ve yet to tell me where we’ll be going.” 

Laurel, who had been leaning against the wall, watching her silent struggle in a quiet contemplation rocked back to her feet. She crossed the room, shoving the door open with her hip. “Alistair doesn’t know either, it’s best kept a surprise. Unless you know Denerim backwards and forwards.” 

“I...I do not.” The maps Baraneth had rifled through and memorized all throughout her teenage years flew through her mind, none of the ones she retained clearest even closely resembling Denerim. That would need to change. Many things would need to change. 

“Off we go then.” She was ushered through the door and down the backhall, through a pathway she didn’t know. “Down through the servants entrance.” Laurel supplied, peeking around the corner to make sure Eamon or the others weren’t lurking about. “I don’t think he’d be happy to hear about this thwarting of tradition.” 

“Something tells me he would not. Though we aren’t exactly traditional.” The list of rules she and Alistair had already broken in regards to a further king and queen consort who are to be married was very long indeed, a list that Baraneth had conveniently neither made nor gone through. What Eamon and Ferelden as a whole knew about one final, personal affair wouldn’t kill them. No one could condemn them for swearing their own vows whilst wearing flowered crowns. 

Evening  bloomed over Denerim’s skyline in bold hues of orange and yellow that faded to deep blues and purples, bathing cobblestone streets in liquid gold and sparkling off the remnants of an afternoon’s shower dripping from leaves and blades of grass as they stepped out into the streets. It was a short walk, sandwiched between the elven sisters, all but being dragged towards the main gate. Even she began to lose her sense of direction as she was pulled down winding side streets and alleyways, finally finding a small grove. They must be near the edge of the city, if she were to try and place them. The buildings around the small area were dark, as though they hadn’t seen life in a few months, the grassy area filled with sparse trees. 

The remaining rain from the night previous dampened the woolen hem of Baraneth’s dress, saturating and darkening the brown to near black as she stepped into the grass, eyes fixated on Alistair. Across the way, talking animatedly with Zevran and Leliana, standing tall even as the grass soaked his own shoes and trouser hems, was  Alistair. “There he is!” Ruinel cooed with a quiet giggle, nudging her to keep her frozen feet walking while Laurel strode in front of them, calling much more loudly; 

“We’re here! Her highness needed a bit of convincing.” 

Alistair whipped around to look at her, a smile spreading across his face. A stray petal from the twisted crown of flowers thrown haphazardly across his golden hair drifted down to brush across his nose, bringing on a sneeze and when they looked at each other again they could not help but laugh. Baraneth picked up her pace, hiking her skirts up to her calves so that she could run through the grass and reach him sooner. The movement shook petals from Baraneth’s own crown of foliage, spreading them across her hair and Alistair steadied her with hands on her shoulders before reached across the space between them brush the petals back. “I hope you weren’t having second thoughts.” he teased. 

“Never.” Standing there in front of him, with the reality of their decision sinking in like the warmth of his hands that had settled on her shoulders she couldn’t keep the giddiness out of her voice. “Never in an age.” 

“If you two are quite done,” Laurel said, walking by them with a flick of her hand towards their ragtag group. “I do believe the Chantry mother is this way.” 

Two blankets had been laid out across the damp ground for their small audience to sit on, a basket of extra flowers plopped on the corner for some use unknown to Baraneth. The Chantry mother gave no acknowledgement or admonishment to who they were and what they were planning on doing, offering only a secretive smile when Baraneth smiled shyly at her. 

“Greetings and blessings upon those who gather here under Andraste’s blessed light to witness the joining of Baraneth Cousland and Alistair Theirin.” The Chantry mother eyed the fidgeting and smiling couple and chastised them with a look dampened by a hidden half smile. “Are we ready to begin?” 

“Maker, yes.” Alistair murmured, then flushed a brilliant red. Baraneth began to reach for his hand until the Chantry mother froze her with a glance. Instead her smile grew as she said: 

“I would be nowhere else.” 

“Alistair, are you here on this day of your own free will?” 

“I am.” Alistair could only glance at the Chantry mother for those two words before his eyes were drawn back to Baraneth’s, shining with emotion in the morning light. 

“And you, Baraneth, are you here on this day of your own free will?”

“I am.” 

“As these two children of the Maker have pledged their will to be married on this day we call upon Him to smile on their union. Should anyone have just cause to void this union let them speak now or remain silent.” 

The two deemed to be wed glanced out across the grassy clearing, where their party and friends sat or stood in the grass on pilfered quilts and tablecloths. Ruinel was beaming at them, hands clasped together as she rocked back and forth in excitement. The others smiled, offering no objections. 

“Do you swear, Alistair, that there is no reason known to you that this joining should not be ordained?”

“I do swear.”

“Baraneth, is there any reason known to you why this partnership should not be made?” 

“I know none.” She breathed out. There could be no reason, not that she knew. Already she was his and he was hers, fully. 

“There is opposition in all worldly things; for darkness there is light. By the Maker’s Will alone is balance sundered and the world is given new life. May He look down on you and offer you such balance as He intended.” the Chantry mother intoned.  “Do you, Alistair, take Baraneth Cousland as your wife and pledge before the Maker to be with her in sickness and in health, in good and in bad, to cherish and forsake all others for her a long as you both live?”

“I, Alistair Theirin, by the life that courses within my blood and the love that resides within my heart, take Baraneth Cousland to my hand, my heart, and my spirit, to be my chosen one.

 Into your eyes that I will smile each morning and I will cherish and honor you through this life  and into the next. I shall not seek to change you in any way. I shall respect you, your beliefs, your people, and your ways as I respect myself.”

“Do you, Baraneth, take Alistair Theirin  as your husband and pledge before the Maker to be with her in sickness and in health, in good and in bad, to cherish and forsake all others for her a long as you both live?”

Baraneth took a breath, giving the smallest of nods. “You cannot possess me for I belong to myself  But while we both wish it, I give you that which is mine to give . I pledge to you my living and my dying, each equally in your care.  I shall be a shield for your back and you for mine. This is my wedding vow to you This is the marriage of equals.” 

They would have no rings, not here. Rings were too conspicuous, were too clear a binding that would break the tradition that they now had to upkeep with the decision of the Landsmeet for the coronation and marriage. But they didn’t need to rings of gold or silver to proclaim them united; they just needed this. Together, in their own control, with their friends surrounding their unions. 

The chantry mother gestured for the pair to kneel, taking from her satchel four colored cords. “In binding you together now you are bound together under the Maker’s eyes. Link hands, if you will.” 

They did. Alistair’s hand enveloped Baraneth’s fully, warm and familiar. 

Cued by the Chantry mother Ruinel, Laurel, and Leliana came forward, each taking one of the cords. At the last moment Zevran slid by Laurel, plucking the gold cord from her with a sly grin. 

Leliana, with a cord red as her hair in her hands stepped forward when the Chantry mother gestured and looped it around Baraneth and Alistair’s entwined wrists and hands in an infinity, leaving the loose ends draping. “With this cord you are tied together with romance, partnership and happiness.”

Ruinel fiddled with the ivory cord she held carefully, as though she were afraid of dropping and soiling the brilliant color in the grass. She all but leapt forward as if shocked when cued, following the  path of Leliana’s cord with a slight frown and the knit brows of intense concentration. At the end she offered a beaming smile to her friends, young face brilliantly happy. “Under this cord may peace, sincerity and devotion always find you.” 

As Zevran came forward there was a mischievous glint in his eyes that made the newlywed's eyes narrow in unison, even as they allowed Zevran to loop the cord around their wrists all the same. “Doe this one feel tighter to you?” Alistair whispered, earning a sharp look from the Chantry Mother. 

“For longevity, my friend.” Zevran said with a wink, smirk not fading as Alistair flared red again and Baraneth ducked her head, muffling laughter and feeling her cheeks burn.   
“And finally, bound by this cord may you find unity, prosperity, and _longevity_.” The Chantry mother said pointedly to the assassin that once more lounged languidly across the grass.  Crossing the small distance to the couple she knelt before them, reaching out to take each end in her hands and begin to tie them into a knot, binding their wrists together fully as one. Alistair brushed his fingers reverently across the back of Baraneth’s hand, eyes softening as he looked at her with a peaceful smile. “With the tying of this knot your desires, dreams, love and happiness wished here in this place to your lies for as long as love shall last.” She tied the last the cord together and pulled away, letting the trailing cord brush against the grass.

“In the joining of hands and the fashioning of this knot, so are your lives now bound, one to another. Two entwined in love, bound by commitment and fear, sadness and joy, by hardship and victory, anger and reconciliation, all of which brings strength to this union. You may now seal your bond with a kiss.”

They leaned forward, Alistair trying to bring his dominant hand up to cup her cheek, forgetting that their hands were bound. “Alistair!” Baraneth scrunched up her nose as he let their joined hands flop back down, her laughter broken off by his lips covering hers. 

Cheers broke out from their assembled friends and gatherings of wildflowers and the blooms of weeds were tossed into the air over them, coating the newlyweds in the small buds and petals as the pair fell closer, laughing in earnest now. Alistair’s free arm wrapped around her waist as Baraneth’s looped behind his shoulders to tug him to her, meeting again in a kiss spilling over with giddy enthusiasm. 

Together they untied the knots around their wrists, fumbling and with growing smiles that hurt their cheeks each time their attempt failed. The colored ropes coiled to the ground at their knees as the knots finally fell free and with a flourish Alistair picked them up, handed them to the Chantry mother and then extended his hand to Baraneth. His eyes twinkled in the fading sun, dancing with elation.  “A hand to you, my beloved  _ wife _ .” he relished the feel of the word, smiling brightening tenfold. 

Baraneth allowed herself to be pulled to her feet, linking their arms together, pushing herself up on her toes to kiss him again, simply because she could. 

“Alright, alright!” Zevran finally cried, earning laughter from the small group. “Save it for the tent, no?” He paused, a finger coming to his chin while he thought. “Though I suppose it’s a real room the two of you get, spoiled, sneaky bastards.” 

Alistair smiled, huffing out a laugh as his forehead rested against Baraneths’s. “Now, now, Zevran we wouldn’t even  _ think  _ of doing anything of that sort under the Maker’s eyes.” He cut his eyes over to the Chantry mother, standing dutifully off to the side and turning a deaf ear to the teasing jumping back and forth and then grinned at Baraneth, letting his voice drop. “But we haven’t been struck by lightning yet…” 

“Alistair!” Baraneth gasped, face flaring as she was suddenly hyper aware of the Chantry mother doing her best to avert her eyes from their going ons. “Not  _ here _ .” She darted back from him, hands lingering together for as long as humanly possible and ran over to the Chantry mother, snatching her hands gratefully. “Thank you for everything, Mother. There is truly no way we can repay you for...” Breaking what was monarchical ordained laws of marriage, ordaining the actions of two young lovers not expecting to see the dawn. “Everything.” 

The Chantry  mother smiled softly down at her, eyes twinkling. “It is nothing, my dear. I will not protest a little bit of happiness in this dark time. But from here on out...I did nothing, understand.” 

Nodding, eyes wide and face flushed with giddiness Baraneth said quickly, “Of course! Of course.” Shifting her weight back and forth and unable to decide if she should just leave it at that, she was finally saved by the Chantry mother gathering her satchel of things and turning a sad-eyed look on Baraneth and her friends rambunctiously gathering in the clearing. “Maker watch over you, all of you, tomorrow.” 

That wiped the smile off of Baraneth’s face, the dark cloud that had been burned away by the sun starting to drift back in once more. “I...may He smile over you too, revered Mother.” 

With the Mother gone it was now only them, a ragtag band of friends who were the only force standing between Denerim and the Blight, or so it felt in that moment. She jumped when Alistair’s arms went around her waist, his chin gentle on her shoulder. “Everything alright, darling?” 

She rested her hands over his, turning her head and bumping her nose against his forehead. No reason to bring up her fears, not now when everyone was smiling wide. “Everything is amazing.”

“It is,” Alistair agreed softly, pressing a mischievous kiss to the joining spot of he neck and shoulder before stepping back, taking her hand in his own. “The others are clamoring that we should celebrate since last night’s was cut short. I’ve finally convinced them that returning to Eamon’s estate will do, but I think Leliana and Zevran are betting on who has the better way of opening the ale taps and that scares me.” 

“Maker’s breath,” Baraneth laughed, letting herself be guided back towards the group. “We’ll be kicked from Eamon’s house and home before the night ends if we aren’t careful.” 

Ruinel perked up as Baraneth walked back over, running over and flinging her arms around her. “That was so sweet, Bara!” the young elf gushed, talking a mile a minute. “You’re married now and you two just are just so happy and--” she broke off, tears sparking in her eyes until she buried her head against the human woman’s shoulder. “It’s just so nice to see you two happy.” was muffled and sniffled out against her shoulder. 

“Oh, Ru,” Stepping back she cupped the sniffling girl’s cheeks in her hands, brushing tears away. Ruinel’s doe-like eyes were tearfilled and something in their depths made her consider that she wasn’t the only one thinking about the next day’s battle. Whatever she was going to say dried on her tongue and she instead sighed. “Just focus on today.” 

Bobbing her head in understanding, Ruinel made to move away, scrubbing a hand over her cheeks, until Baraneth pulled her back in for another crushing hug, rocking them back and forth. “Let’s go back to Eamon’s. I bet you ten silver that Oghren will be under the table within the first hour.” 

“You assume he can even get drunk anymore with how much alcohol is in his system.” Ruinel quipped back in a watery voice, freeing herself from Baraneth’s grip with a thankful smile. Her fingers, calloused from her staff went up to Baraneth’s hair, pushing something back into place. “Your flowers are coming loose.” 

Then she was gone, ducking back to slide between Laurel and Leliana, seamlessly breaking whatever understanding had passed between them. “Shall we?” Baraneth glanced over her shoulder at Alistair, tailed by Zevran who was trying to explain something despite  Alistair all but clamping his hands over his ears and singing to drown him out. 

“Ah, my fair, queenly lady,” Zevran transitioned smoothly with a rakish grin. “I was just telling your new husband the best way to--” 

“ _ No _ , no you will not repeat that.” Alistair cut in vehemently with a shake of his head. “I think we can do well without hearing that again.” 

Baraneth raised a brow as they started down the cobblestone path, hitching her skirts up to her ankles to keep it from the gathering puddles. No one would be any the wiser to see them walking down to the street, dressed all in commoner clothing with nothing but the flowered crowns to indicate anything remiss than a day’s commute. “Well now I am a little curious.” 

“Ha!” Zevran barked, turning a told-you-so-look on Alistair. “You say your lady would not want to hear it, I say otherwise. Now look who is right.” 

Turning a pleading look onto Baraneth, Alistair’s voice was imploring. “Bara,  _ please  _ don’t ask him to say it again. I think my ears will fall off and revolt.”

“Then it shall be a sight to see.” Baraneth teased, inclining her head to Zevran. “Now, what exactly have you been  _ itching  _ to say?”

The assassin fell into step beside her, ducking their heads close together conspiratorially. His voice passed between just them until Baraneth wheeled back, a look of taken aback amusement on her face even while her face flushed brilliantly until it began to creep down her neck. “Zevran!” 

“I told you.” Alistair groaned, covering his face with his hands and giving his head a shake. “I told you you shouldn’t ask.” 

Denerim’s evening saturated streets passed in a blue of laughter until they stepped through the gates of Arl Eamon’s Denerim estate, Alistair slowing until the rest of the group passed them. 

“Alistair what--” Baraneth broke off in a yelp and suddenly she was swept off her feet and into Alistair’s arms, her hands grasping into the material of his tunic tightly to anchor herself. “What are you doing?” 

“Am I not supposed to carry you over the threshold to be a good husband?” he asked innocently, shifting his grip on her and chuckling when her own grip tightened. She scowled up at him, fingers tightly coiling in his shirt. “You don’t trust me?” 

“I trust you.” She said, pausing between each word. “Perhaps.” 

“Perhaps,” Alistair parroted, voice wounded. “That is hardly the attitude to have towards your future king.” 

They froze, looking at each other with wide eyes. Baraneth’s lips parted, the fact that it was the first time Alistair had acknowledged their decision heavy on her tongue before she smirked slyly, dipping her forehead to his. “My  _ king _ . I must say I like the sound of that.” 

“I much prefer saying you are my dear queen. I may just have to cry it from the rooftops.” 

“Cry it from the rooftops and you may just find yourself labeled the Mad King of Ferelden.” she quipped. “It may look poorly on us if you go crazy one day after being declared king.” She saw the glint in his eye, the pleased grin already forming and lowered her brows menacingly. “If the next words out of your mouth are that you are already crazy for me then I am annulling this marriage right here.” 

He recovered quickly,  “I was  _ going  _ to say it’s crazy to keep our dear friends waiting. They’re worse than they were after the Landsmeet.” Without giving her a chance to protest he carried them both forward through the propped doors of Arl Eamon’s estate.

The estate was Ferelden through and through, with its stone walls supported by thick wooden columns, the doors gilded in elegantly carved wood. The Lion’s banner hung from the ceiling, swaying gently in the draft from the few windows. On either end of the room two hearths worked through their cords of wood to ward off the evening Ferelden chill and sconces burned on the walls to dissipate the growing shadows. 

“They’re here!” Alistair nearly dropped Baraneth as they were swarmed by their friends, all pushing and shoving to clap one or both of them on the shoulder or clamor to have their own congratulations heard. Her mabari, Ailwife, danced around their feet, barking and wagging his nubby tail. “Took you two long enough!” 

“Alright, alright!” he yelped, scrambling to keep his slipping hold on her and she gripped him harder, staring at the floor in trepidation as she considered exactly how poorly she would land with her skirts in play. “Dropping my wife would be a very bad way to start!” 

The group parted and for a moment they were able to re-stabilize until they were carried on a sea of nudges and and shoves into one of the side rooms, bright and merry and already filled with food and drink. Unceremoniously they were shoved to the head of the table and Alistair staggered into the chair pushed his way, Baraneth finally swinging down from his arms before she truly fell. “Truly, I think you lot want us  _ dead _ .” She said with a roll of her eyes before she felt a tug around her waist and she fell back against Alistair. “And you too!” 

“We've run out of chairs.” Alistair said innocently. “You shouldn’t have to-- _ oof! _ ” Their now-shared chair rocked back dangerously and Ailwife plowed into them, flinging his front half across Baraneth’s lap. The mabari strained to reach their faces, wet nose shoving against cheeks and tongue slurping kisses across them both. 

“Ailwife! Down!” Baraneth spluttered, trying and failing to push the hound from her legs before they all went crashing to the floor in a truly spectacular fashion. Her hound desisted, leaping back from them and prancing off to join Ruinel’s mabari by the fireplace. 

“Is it treason if I say I could live without Mabari’s kisses?” Alistair scrubbed his sleeve across his face, mirroring Baraneth, who furiously wiped her hands across her face to try and get rid of some of the slobber. She had to agree, as Ferelden as she was with her stereotypical adoration of her hound, she could do well without his slobbering licks.   
“If it’s treason then we might as well send ourselves to the gallows now.” 

Their teasing was interrupted by an argument breaking out in the corner. Ruinel had Morrigan cornered halfway out of the archway, her small frame blocking Morrigan’s path. “What do you mean you’re  _ leaving _ ?” 

“Just as I said it.” Morrigan snapped. “I have no desire to sit here and celebrate the insufferable union on the eve of a war.” 

Baraneth made to stand, she didn’t want a fight to break out, not tonight. Tonight was not the night that she wanted to face Morrigan’s vitriolic comments, not when she was still bubbling over with the giddy energy from the evening, not when the shadow looming over her ever since their arrival in Denerim and the end of the Blight had stopped haunting her steps. Even if it was just for now. 

For once it was Alistair’s arm around her that stopped her movement and when she snapped around to look at him his eyes were weary. “Let her be. It isn’t worth it.” 

Ruinel planted her hands on her hips, glowering. “It isn’t  _ insufferable _ . It is  _ hope _ Morrigan, and you should at least stay, you are a member of our party, our friend.” 

The witch recoiled, a sneer twisting her features before it faltered to mild disgust. “I may ally myself with you, but I do  _ not _ call myself a friend to others in this room.” 

Her burning amber eyes were fixed on Baraneth and Alistair with venom. It was no secret that Morrigan’s thorns only ceased to cut when directed towards the young elf, but to hear her say so blatantly, among all of them, stung like a nettle and she had to bite her tongue hard to keep herself from speaking out. 

The remainder of the room had gone quiet, the pouring of drink ceasing as everyone seemed to still in the hopes that they would go unnoticed in the brewing tension. Ruinel glared at Morrigan for several beats more. “ _ Fine  _ then. Take your leave.” 

  
  


“Welll they’ll say Andraste can’t have some big old smelly wardog. But all Ferelden knows it right: Our sweet Lady needed someone who would warm her feet at night…” Alistair’s voice boomed off the wooden walls and vaulted ceiling, and Baraneth joined in with her own shaking-with-laughter voice as they stumbled through the verses of the tavern song. Neither of them knew the entire song, or even much more than the general beat but somewhere along the way conversation had petered out and their singing had taken hold. Maybe it was the wine leaving a flush across her cheeks loosening her singing voice, or maybe it was the light feeling in her chest or the want to blow every last thought of tomorrow from her mind. 

 Even caught snugly in the circle of Alistair’s arms as she still was, she managed to reach down to scrunch up the happy, panting face of Ailwife  in time with the off-key singing, who was sitting dutifully by her side begging for the remnants of food on the table and wagging his nubby tail at his giggling mistress.  

The same verse started up again, only to be cut off by Baraneth’s loud shushing as the words repeated, realization hitting her in a surge of indignance. “Alistair! You only know that one verse!”

“And you have something better, my dear?” 

The remnants of their braided crowns sat askew on their heads, shedding petals as Baraneth abandoned Ailwife’s fur to drape her arms across Alistair’s shoulders again, cutting off his now-solo as the voices of their companions dropped away singing with a giddy kiss. “I  _ do _ .” 

Amid the dramatic gagging of their companions--mainly Oghren, Zevran, and Laurel. Wynne had abandoned their party not long ago along with Shale, who had parted with some exasperated comment on their imbibement and Ruinel had taken to one of the benches with Leliana in quiet contemplation, eyes half lidded.--a demand rose.

“Speeches! Speeches!” Zevran and Laurel chanted, arms hooked around each other. “Before we have to witness anymore of your  _ disgusting  _ displays of affection!” 

“Speeches?” Alistair protested. “I don’t have a speech prepared, I used all my speeches on the Landsmeet!” 

“Better get used to it, your Kingliness.” Laurel pressed. “No backing out of it.” 

“Right..um..I guess I should thank you all for being here, not as if you had a choice, if anything you came for the wine…”

“Here, here!” 

“You could at least show a little enthusiasm for  _ us.  _ But anyways, Baraneth…”

They didn’t make it through coherent speeches, interruptions rendering them all  but a jumble of words, and finally the hints of yawns were starting to break through the conversation as the hearts spluttered low and the stars twinkled brightly. 

The prospect of leaving behind the lightheartedness of the moment and of trying to sleep with tomorrow looming again opened a pit in Baraneth’s stomach and she rested her head against Alistair’s shoulder, absentmindedly fiddling with the loose ties of his collar, his arms a heavy weight around her middle. “A copper for your thoughts?” He whispered, breath brushing across her cheek. 

“Only that it is getting late.” Baraneth lied. “Perhaps it is time we all part ways. Tomorrow will be...decisive.” 

Alistair paused, the steady pattern of his breath catching, before he brushed his lips across her cheek and nodded. “I’m sure we can make an exit. May I carry you, my love? For propriety’s sake.” 

Affection bloomed in her chest and she pursed her lips. “Do I truly get a choice in the matter?” 

“You could drop me like a sack of rocks if you so desired, that is choice enough.” 

Pretending to consider, Baraneth finally offered a soft, closed-lipped smile. “You may.” 

Without missing a beat he stood, hoisting her back into his arms like she weighed nothing more than a feather. “Well, as much as I hate to cut off the taps for you animals, I believe we’re going to take our leave.” 

“For completely prim and proper purposes.” Baraneth cut off any comments that she could see forming on their friends’ lips before they could fall. “Tomorrow will be…” 

Sobriety fell across the room, the mood darkening. “Save those words for tomorrow.” Leliana advised, looking hard at the floor. “Let tonight stand at it is. We’ll see you come morning.” 

With mumbled ‘good nights’ and ‘see you tomorrow morns’ tailing them Alistair carried her through the halls of the estate, up quiet staircases and dark rooms. When they finally reached her room he let her slide to the floor and he pressed a sweet, wine-tasting kiss to her lips. “Tonight...should you not be able to sleep my door is open.” he promised. 

“I know.” She assured, reluctant to leave. If she parted from his side then it all would become real again and she would see her armor reappointed on it’s armor stand in the corner of her room. With a shaky breath she stepped back, leaning her hip into the door. “Try to get some sleep. I love you.” 

“And I you.” Then Alistair was gone, disappearing down the hallway towards his own room while Baraneth pushed open the heavy oak door and closed it as softly as she could, resting her forehead against the knolled wood. 

When she turned she let out a bitten back shriek, starting. Morrigan stood by the fireplace, arms crossed tightly over her chest and hip cocked. “Ah, the miserable newlywed finally returns. Do not give me a look of such loathing. I am merely here to say my farewells.” 

She crossed the room warily, stopping a few paces from Morrigan and mirroring her pose. “What do you want, Morrigan?” she asked shortly, not believing that was the sole reason for her appearance. 

“Such hostility.” Morrigan lamented, meeting Baraneth’s discontented look with one of her own. “I only ask that you listen to my offer.” 

“Offer?” While her voice was bold, scoffing, dread was fast digging its claws into her. Any of Morrigan’s ‘offers’ could be no good. There was nothing the witch said that she could trust. “Don’t play games with me. Why are you here?” 

Something in Morrigan's chilly veneer dropped and a pained look briefly flashed across her face before she glared into the fire. “I know of the Grey Wardens’ fate if you face the dragon tomorrow. I also know what Ruinel intends to do, what you plan to do as well. If you care at all for your friends’ or your lover’s heart then you will listen to me very carefully…” 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who has left kudos, comments, or even just lurk-read on this! I am *floored* that people seem to like it, as its a story that I hold very near and dear to my heart! Have a lovely day all, and as always feel free to come shout at me on captainderyn on tumblr <3


	4. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The tension in Denerim finally bubbles over...darkspawn seem to pour from every crack in Ferelden's defenses and in the aftermath Baraneth tries to accept her new reality.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forewarning for this chapter: It does get a bit more heavy emotionally than the previous chapters.

**_Chapter Two_ **

_9:31 Dragon_

 

Denerim was smoldering. Buildings that had once stood tall were husks of their former glory, their timbered skeletons laid bare and charred. Stone walls that had once separated homes from publics buildings were crushed and smoke left a choking haze across the air. Across the square, sheets were laid over the fallen, fluttering slightly in the breeze that filled the air with a musty tang of death and iron.

( _The day broke red, outside of Denerim was a haze of orange and grey; smoke poured across the sky from forests and villages set ablaze miles out by the darkspawn approach. Already  a dark mass frothed outside the far gates, seconds ticking down until they broke through the iron and wood._

_In front of her, Alistair bounded up the stairs two at a time until he came to rest at the top of a small outcropping outside the building’s boarded up door. Baraneth followed, overlooking the soldiers gathered in front of them as in a shifting din of plate armor they turned to face them._

_“In front of us stands the might of the darkspawn horde. Gaze down on them now, know them, but do not fear them.” His voice carried across the masses just as it had echoed in the halls of the Landsmeet and their soldiers looked at them raptly. Even in Warden armor, a griffon emblazoned across his chest, Alistair was already so much more than a single Grey Warden to them._

_Alistair shifted to let Baraneth step forward, gesturing to her. “This woman beside me, your queen, is a native of Ferelden and she is living proof that glory and victory are within the reach of us all! She has survived despite the odds and without her none of us would be here.”_

_His restless energy carried him back down the stairs in long-strided steps and even as Baraneth strode after him all attention was rapt on him alone. He had these men and women, who were once shaking in their plate, reaching for their swords and putting steel in their spines._

_“Today, we save Denerim! Today we avenge the death of my brother, King Cailin. But most of all today we show the Grey Wardens that we remember and we honor their sacrifice.”_

_He turned sharply, facing the writhing dark mass that was breaking through the gates, and raised his sword. “For Ferelden!”_

_“For the Grey Wardens!” Baraneth’s own shout, emboldened by the courage of her lover was lost in the shouts of their warriors, who surged  past them in a rush of steel.)_

The Alienage lay mostly unharmed, the gates broken and the first alleyway littered in death and blood, yet their _vhenadahl_ tree stood tall and vibrant still, visible from the square itself.

Broken carts and caravans were strewn across the marketplace, goods scattered in fermenting crates and piles. The bodies of ogres were dark shadows in corners, the heavy snorting of plow horses with harnesses hooked to the creature’s legs, digging their hooves into soaked dirt to pull the bodies from view, a strange sort of music.

Outside the city gates acrid, darker plumes of smoke rose as darkspawn corpses burned.

Fort Drakon lay in disarray, it’s uppermost levels exposed to the sky. Stones fell from the tower with each passing moment, slowly crumbling under its own weight.

( _“In front of us lies the pivotal moment of the Blight!” Baraneth shouted, voice rough from smoke but carrying strong. “One way or another the archdemon and his horde fall_ today _. We have sent the darkspawn turning tail to run, we will not let them return!” She raised her fist, facing her friends and allies square, head raised high. “Remember, in war we find victory! She will smile down on us proudly today.”_

_“Know that there is no finer group of people I would rather have fought alongside.” Her last words were drowned out by the rallying cries of her friends, bloodied and worn but all standing tall in front of her. Chest rising and falling with the pace of the adrenaline pumping through her she nodded towards Ruinel and Laurel. “Alistair, Ru, Laurel, with me. We’ll need all our strength together.”_

_While her heart pounded wildly in her chest, the rushing in her ears near drowning out any verbal reply she saw Ruinel look between herself and Leliana, saw the shadow fall over her eyes. Soot and ash coated her face and armor and her arm was dripping slowly with blood, remnants of the blood magic she drew on like second nature now. “Baraneth…”_

_She was scared. They all were scared. She didn’t want to leave her love, her point of safety, Leliana, in the fray. From the way her eyes flicked accusingly between her and Alistair she was picking out the circumstantial hypocrisy even now. They didn’t have the_ time _for this argument. Every second they loitered a second wave of darkspawn could be cresting the hills around Denerim, the archdemon could be causing more destruction. This wasn’t a matter of choice, it was a matter of the Grey Wardens staying together._

_“Ruinel.” She dragged the command from herself, forcing her tone to sharpen. “With. Me. We’re going to need all of our power to hold the Fort.”_

_The elf ceded, jaw working even as Leliana rested a hand on her shoulder, bowing her head to whisper something that made her pointed ears twitch._

_“I want the rest of you to hold the gate.” Baraneth addressed the remaining group. “I don’t pretend to know what you will face, but you_ must _hold it. It is something I never wanted to ask from any of you...but do not expect for things to be easy.”_

_Laurel broke from the group first, coming to stand beside her, and Ruinel followed with a cutting look at Baraneth, hand white knuckled on her staff. Leliana nodded to them, arrows rustling together in their quiver. “We will do our best, Baraneth. May the Maker watch over you. All of you.”_

_Alistair briefly clasped her arm, the look they shared filled with the weight of what Morrigan had offered and the choices they had made and the threat of what was to come. There was no need for them to say goodbye here, at the gate, they had already shared it away from prying eyes. They could show no weakness now, not when everyone’s courage stemmed from their straight backs and squared shoulders._

_But for a brief moment Alistair ducked his head, words passing quick and soft between them. “Whatever happens...know that I love you.”_

_“And I you.” Baraneth breathed even as fear trickled ice cold through her. )_

“In war, victory. In peace, vigilance. In death…..sacrifice.”

Baraneth pressed her right hand over her heart, bowing her head. Alistair's voice was thick, his other hand tightly gripping hers. At their feet a diritied and bloodied white sheet hid Riordan from view.

“You fought bravely, Riordan.” she filled the trailed-off silence that Alistair left, squeezing his hand. “For the Order, for Denerim. For Ferelden. Rest peacefully.”

( _The archdemon was larger than she could ever have imagined and though she had seen it once before, in the Deep Roads, the sight of it stopped her in her tracks._

_It snaked it’s head back and forth, claws digging deep into the stone of the Fort. One of its wings was in tatters, the thick hide torn and bleeding all the way through. Arrows stuck from the gaps between scales, dark blood oozing from the wounds that only seemed to infuriate the beast._

_“Mythal ama em'an,” Laurel gasped, daggers gripped tightly in hands. “That beast...Riordan…”_

_That was the beast that had killed Riordan and now they too faced it’s wrath. Baraneth glanced over her shoulder at Alistair, words that she couldn’t find parting her lips. She didn’t want to know if her face reflected his, courageous bluff called, terror written clear as day instead. In his eyes she saw the plea that she not charge the archdemon._

_A greatsword lay abandoned alongside a fallen soldier, a blade large and sharp enough that perhaps it could rip through the demon’s thick hide and scales. Baraneth hoisted her shield better on her arm, gripping her sword. The remainder of the horde was engaged by their allies; the dwarves, elves, and men who had agreed to join them. It wasn’t going to end until that beast fell._

_As she pushed off to start running, all before her fast fading nerve would fail completely, a weight slammed into her side. She stumbled, caught off guard from the blow from behind and in her moment's hesitation Ruinel shouldered her way through, her cry of: “Ar’m abelelas!” torn away in the din of the battle._

_“Ruinel!” Laurel’s fingers just barely missed seizing her sister’s robes, her fumbling steps after her sister slowly gaining speed._

_Panic ripped sharp through her. How had she not noticed the young elf’s staff clattering to the ground behind her? How had she let her catch her off guard?_

_She couldn’t be the one to land the final blow, if Morrigan’s ritual didn’t succeed then it was never supposed to be Ruinel who would lose her life. It was supposed to be_ her _, it was her choice, it would be her cross to bear. No one else was supposed to die for her selfish gamble._ _  
_ _“Ru!” Her sister’s scream ripped through the air and Baraneth’s feet began to move on her own accord, her mind dully registering Alistair’s muffled curse and the heavy sound of his steps alongside hers. Both their mabari howled their discontent, running on their heels._

_Her breath was loud in her ears, her eyes blurring with tears as the smoke and heat stung them and fear rose like bile in her throat. She could see Ruinel, through watering eyes hefting the sword she had never wielded, driving it into the archdemon._

_The archdemon’s ear piercing shriek tore at her ears as it writhed, head wheeling about as it swiped massive claws at thin air. It tried to protect the spot of pain-the long slash down its neck and underbelly--and tried to pummel its attacker, flinging its weight around._

_The burst of light hit first, blinding her until she could no longer tell which way was forward. The archdemon’s cry rose to a crescendo, joined with the ragged scream of a young girl._

_The shockwave threw her from her feet, throwing her into Alistair. Her armor drove deep into her flesh when she hit the ground, rubble raining down on them from all sides. She threw her arms over her head, not registering the shadow of Alistair over her or his weight on top of hers from behind her tightly shut eyes. The roaring all around them was too much, the tower had to be collapsing underneath them from the force of the sound or the weight of the stone her armor protected her from._

_Just as quickly as it had begun the cacophony of noise assaulting her ceased, but the ringing in her ears deafened her still. Dully she became away of someone shaking her, turning her onto her back. Against their will--it would be so much easier to lay here, curled on the cold ground, to live in this darkness so that she need not see what had happened around them--her eyes opened, stinging with debris, and she gasped in a breath filled with dust and smoke. Before she could look at her surroundings Alistair was crushing her tightly to his chest and she could feel the rapid rise and fall of his shoulders, the quickness of his breath against the skin of her neck. Were he not wearing armor just as she was she would have felt him shaking._

_“You’re alright, you’re alright. Maker you’re okay.”_

_Her stomach twisted violently and while she forced her limp arms around Alistair, grounding herself in his presence her voice cracked, “Ruinel?”_

_“I don’t know, I don’t know what happened.” Alistair pulled away, eyes flitting across her face. “She wasn’t supposed to...one moment she was standing between Laurel and I and the next she was running. I couldn’t--_ no _.”_

_A sobbing wail carried over to them as the debris settled and unable to put words to the sudden stopping of their hearts they scrambled to their feet, using each other as support, running towards the fallen form of the archdemon. It’s massive shadow loomed across the ground, cracks spreading beneath it’s body as the floor began to buckle underneath it._

_Her eyes only glanced across the beast as her heart crawled further and further into her throat. Laurel was on her knees, her sister clutched tight in her arms, sobbing against her shoulder. Choked elvish fell indecipherable from her and she didn’t even seem to notice when Baraneth reached her side. The greatsword lay only an arms length away, coated in the sickly black ichor of the archdemon._

_Ruinel was still as stone, blood trailing from her nose and lips and doe-eyes closed. The blue of her Warden’s robes was darkened to black, the once gleaming grey metal slicked with rust. Baraneth dropped to her knees alongside them, a soft cry sticking in her throat. Their mabari hounds bounded over, whining and pacing around the Wardens._

_Alistair crossed around to Laurel, kneeling alongside her and placing a hand on her shoulders.  She didn’t even seem to notice them._

_Against all hope she reached forward, pressing her fingers to Ruinel’s neck and waiting, refusing to breath herself until she felt_ something _. “She’s alive!” She fumbled on her belt for the pouch with their few remaining, tiny vials of health potion, desperately praying to the Maker she could never say she believed fully in that they had not been broken her in her fall. “Laurel, she’s alive.”_

 _“Ru?” finally Laurel looked at Baraneth, eyes red rimmed, tears still flowing freely.  “But...I-I..when I found her she...” she dipped her head back to her sister’s shoulder, shaking as Baraneth found one of the vials and yanked the stopper out, forcing it down the young elf’s throat._ _  
_ _Three vials in, last one in hand and half gone through the cracked surface of Ru’s lips, she finally spluttered, gasping in a ragged deep breath. Laurel’s arms tightened around her sister, broken thanks to what Baraneth could only assume were the elven Creators falling like a mantra. Baraneth rocked back on her heels, pressing a fist to her mouth and trying to will herself to stop trembling._

_“It worked.” She croaked, staring at Alistair, who looked haunted as if he had just seen the end of the world. “It worked…”_

_He nodded numbly, eyes drifting to the archdemon. “We need to get her out of here.” He said hoarsely, eyes flicking to Ruinel. While she had spluttered back to steady life her eyes remained shut and she had yet to stir again. Baraneth crawled over to Laurel, gentle placing a hand on her arm._

_“Laurel, we’re going to get her out of here. I promise.” Her hand slipped down her arm to her wrist, giving a tentative tug. “But I need you to let her go. Unless you can carry her?”_

_She shook her head--though she probably could physically carry the small weight of her sister she was trembling badly enough that Baraneth wondered if she herself would be able to stand-- and after a moments more of hesitation she let her arms loosen then fall away, sitting frozen while Alistair gathered Ruinel into his arms carefully and stood. Baraneth slipped an arm behind Laurel’s shoulders, helping the shocked and trembling woman to her feet.  “Come on now, we’re getting out of here.”)_

“It’s over.” Alistair tore his eyes from the rusty-stained sheet, looking out over the city they had fought tooth and nail to protect.

She nodded faintly, breaking away from their sequestered corner of the square and walking further into the destruction. Even though she had spent the long hours between night and dawn scrubbing her armor clean of blood and ichor until her hands had chafed and bled it still felt as though the iron tang of blood wafted off of the metal, each leather strap holding it in place cutting into her skin like a dagger.

Everywhere she looked she saw destruction, she saw the aftermath of a battle won that didn’t feel like a victory at all. Too many lives had been lost and too much blood stained the cobblestones under her feet.

They may have lost their own kin, doors in Eamon’s estate had remained closed to all but the healers whisking in and out. Her stomach had been in knots, her breath unable to be drawn deep.

She didn’t know where her feet were taking her, her eyes drifting unfocused around the crowds of people. When she passed many of them respectfully inclined their heads, bent in a partial movement of deference. One woman came forward, clasping her hands firmly and shaking them. Baraneth’s eyes widened and while her muscles tensed at the sudden movement her arms remained limp as they were shaken. The woman’s words were coming through a tunnel.

“Thank you, _thank you_ my lady. You’ve saved us.”

“I…” _It is my duty_ . _It wasn’t only me. Denerim helped save itself._ “I couldn’t have done it without my fellow Wardens. But this victory belongs to all of Ferelden.”

“And I will gladly pledge my life to Ferelden under your rule, my lady Cousland.” The woman said fervently and then she was gone.

“What did she want?” His voice tired, worn and world-weary, Alistair approached her slowly. Almost tentatively he rested his hand on the small of her back, following her eyes to the spot the women retreated.

“She wanted to thank me. Us. For ending the Blight.” Baraneth shook her head disbelievingly, lifting a hand to gesture to the destruction before letting it drop back to her side. There was too much to even encompass with one sweep of her arm. “How can she thank me for this? Pledge her loyalty to our rule and trust that we will be able to fix _this_?”

Their victory rang hollow to her. She had thought, idealistic as it was, childish as it may be, that once they killed the archdemon that with the snap of their fingers everything could return back to normal. Instead her city was a scene of despair, the people set to be her subjects injured and dying, her dearest friend perhaps laying on her own deathbed. And for what?

Everyone said the Blight had ended, but the cumulation of a year of exhaustion and pain had amounted to nothing more than that very thing doubled.

“Bara,” She looked up at him, worrying her bottom lip incessantly to keep her eyes dry as everything swamped over her.

She was _tired_ . She _hurt_ . The weight of it all felt like it had fallen onto her shoulders and it was slowly crushing her. Ever since Ostagar she had needed to be the strong one, the leader. Everyone looked to her and she couldn’t crumble under their eyes, under the pressure. If she fell then they would too. She was _tired_ of it. She wanted to break, wanted to sit down on the ground and cry like a child at all she had seen and at the state of the world around her. Nothing seemed more appealing than curling into a ball and sleeping for the next age and yet she _couldn’t_. Nor would she be able to, not with all the work that lay before them.

“Follow me.” Alistair took her hand, waiting for her to tip into motion before he started walking. “I know that it’s overwhelming, Maker’s _breath_ there was nothing I wanted to do when I looked out the window this morning other than disappear into the Wilds. But I was here in the early hours; this is just your first glance.” They walked down a street that wound away from the square, into a residential sector. The buildings were still damaged, windows broken and doors off their hinges. Some buildings were blackened husks. But as they walked through the streets life began to stir. Heads appeared in windows, doors creaked open to tentatively look at the their new rulers.

Many of them just nodded in respectful greeting before turning back to their relief efforts, others straightened as they passed and place their hands over their left breast in a quiet show of respect.

“They’re still alive, Bara.” he murmured, waving in return to several of the people before they turned back to their work. She raised her own hand, waving hesitantly and unable to help but smile when three children helping their parents repair a fence slackened their grip on the wooden beam they held to wave enthusiastically at her, practically waving with their entire bodies.

She didn’t know how long they wandered around the city, pausing to hold boards to walls as they were nailed back in, or to help pick up broken baskets of possessions or goods. But by the end of it her ears rang with the thanks of her people, her heart filled with the smiles they offered the two of them as they walked down the streets hand in hand, the blessings from the Maker that were offered to them in good faith.

Alistair slipped in front of her as they approached the marketplace once again, blinding her from the sight that had stunned her in the first place. “Denerim lives, Ferelden lives, _we_ are _alive_ Bara. Remember that.”

She gaped for a few seconds, trying and failing to find something--an agreement, a disagreement, something to articulate exactly what the chaos inside her mind ever since the fighting stopped was from. Instead she just took a step forward to rest her forehead against Alistair's breastplate, a soft, mumbling keen that had resembled an “I know.” in her mind escaping instead.

They were alive. They were alive and Ferelden, _their_ country now, was too. The worst had passed, just as they always had they clung on and survived. That was Ferelden, that was _them_.

Rapid footsteps approached behind her, the noise clicking at the last moment and she stiffened even as Alistair's arm went protectively around her, shifting them so he was in front, a hand going towards a sword he didn’t have. Instinct, a paranoid instinct that haunted them now.

An young woman, one of Isolde’s staff, was running towards them, nearly tripping on one of the loosened cobblestones. “My lord, my lady!” she gasped out, cheeks flushed red from exertion. “I have urgent news.”

“What is it?” Baraneth stepped from Alistair, trying not to connect the dots she was sure she saw appearing with the urgency in the woman’s voice and movement. From the corner of her eye she saw Alistair roll his shoulders and try to shake the tension from his body.

“I was sent by Warden Mahariel, she wanted me to inform you as soon as possible that her sister is awake and alive. She would have delivered the message herself but she didn’t want to leave.”

Something loosened in Baraneth’s chest, the icy fist that had been rendering her lungs useless. “Ruinel is alive?”   

“Such as Warden Mahariel tells me.” The woman confirmed.

“I need to see her!” Without waiting for the conversation to close she took off down the streets, moving as quickly as her aching muscles, bruised bones, and heavy armor would allow for her to move. She needed to see Ru, needed to see that stupid, stupidly brave girl with her eyes open and the color back in her cheeks. Maybe then her world would right itself and she would be able to breath again, knowing that her blood wasn’t on her hands.

“My lady!” The woman called in protest but Baraneth didn’t slow down. There couldn’t be a more important message than the one she had just heart. All others could way. “My lady, wait! I have one other thing to tell you.”

“I believe that one other thing will need to wait.” She heard Alistair say as she rounded the corner onto the wide, main street to Eamon’s estate. “It really _can_ wait, can’t it?”

Denerim’s streets passed in a blur around her, streets that had been minutes before devoid of life seeming to be teeming with it now as she jumped and leapt around people carrying rubble or shattered boards and children playing in the streets while their parents tried to clear the damage from their home.

She nearly plowed through Eamon as she threw open the doors of his estate, barely managing a “Hello, sorry!” as she danced around him before she was off again, tearing her way to the upper floor.

Baraneth barged into the room, catching the door with her hands so that it wouldn’t smash into the wall. “Ru!” she gasped in relief, nearly letting the door swing back into Alistair in her haste to cross the room. Her knees hit the edge of the bed and she tripped, half tumbling into Ruinel as she flung her arms around her as tightly as she dared, loosening her grip when the poor girl gave a muffled noise of discomfort.

She settled on keeping her hands on her shoulders, pulling back until only one of her knees rested on the bed and her weight wasn’t on Ruinel at all. Her faded ginger hair had been plaited back to keep it out of the way and the bruises on her face had faded from purple to a murky brown. The arms that seized Baraneth round her shoulders and pulled her back were bandaged up past her elbows, the material of the wrappings rough against her skin.

“I’m sorry _ma’falon_ .” she whispered hoarsely. “I’m sorry, I didn’t...I thought… _sorry_.”

Tightly Baraneth wrapped her arms around her again, rocking them back and forth as the young elf sniffed into her shoulder. “It’s over.” she choked out. “It’s over and that’s all that matters Ru.”

Ruinel’s fingers were digging into the space between the armor plates of her shoulder but the discomfort seemed unimportant, grounding even. “I couldn’t see you take it.” She stilled as Ruinel’s cries quieted, her voice still wavering and thin. She didn’t want to reopen the wound that was the elf’s idea of her own worth. Not now, not when everyone was so deeply shaken. “But...what Riordan said…” her voice dropped even softer, quivering. “How did I survive?”

 _If you care at all for your friends or your lover’s heart then you will listen to me very carefully…_ Morrigan’s words wrapped themselves tightly as a noose around Baraneth and she brought her eyes to the ceiling for a breath on the hope that no one could read them through her. Oh, she knew that Morrigan’s offer had been taken on mutual agreement but she’d be damned it didn’t bring a wave of sickness over her just thinking about it. The consequences...the unknown...she ran her hand through Ruinel’s hair, giving a small shake of her head.

“That isn’t something you need to concern yourself with.”

The pause between them was bloated with unasked questions. Even the creaking of the walls or window frames seemed to hush. “Baraneth…” Ruinel pulled away, tear tracks raw down her cheeks and brows drawn closely together. “What did you _do_?”

Behind her she heard Alistair leave and she ducked her head, guilt and fear and shame all roiling together in a painful knot in her gut. Ruinel’s eyes followed him over her shoulder before drifting back to her. “Baraneth?”

Her mind was horribly blank, stumbling over itself in a panic under the questioning, increasingly terrored eyes of the girl who would’ve gladly given her life to end the Blight.  There were so many reasons she could give, so many half truths. But she couldn’t speak on the truth now, she couldn’t make the words come forward, couldn’t find the air to explain. “I...we did what we had to do.” She said brokenly.

“ _Oh_.” Ruinel breathed out, but didn’t press her further. She dragged her fingers through her hair, unable to look Ruinel in the eyes. Would telling her the dark nature of the ritual slander the sacrifice she was willing to make--thought she was making? “Morrigan?”

Wordlessly she nodded and she flinched at the heavy sigh. “I know you don’t trust her, but whatever you did...it’s done. She’s gone?”

Done, done and ready to ruin everything they’d worked for. Baraneth stood suddenly, leaning down to cup Ruinel’s face in her hands with a watery and strained smile. “You should rest.” she ended the conversation before she would say something she regretted, trying not to see the hurt flash momentarily in her eyes. “I’m going to go find Alistair, I believe we have some planning to do.”

Before she could pull away Ruinel lifted herself delicately off the bed to wrap one arm around Baraneth’s shoulders, dragging her back in quietly offered comfort. It was a small gesture, but she felt her eyes beginning to burn. “Whatever you did, wherever she is, I trust you.”

It wasn’t hard to find Alistair, he hadn’t gone far. He was in the study they had been planning in prior to the attack, the candles burning low. He leaned against the desk, hands resting over the sea of vellum they had strewn across the wood while planning tactics. Either he heard her enter or just assumed she would come and his tone was dull, tired.  

“Eamon informed me that we will be making an appearance before the people of Denerim tomorrow.” Alistair shuffled through the sheets of vellum that remained on the study’s desk, remainders of their planning for the siege on Denerim, plans to how to attack the archdemon. He wandered over towards the fire and after a pause, hands working the vellum into tears and winkles, he tossed them into the flames. They were overcome within moments, ash spreading across the logs and fading. “There have been rumors that one or both of us were killed in the fighting and they need to be put to rest. Ruinel and Laurel will also need to come, we’ll need to recognize them as Heroes of Ferelden. Such is the title they’ve been given. We’ve been given.”

Baraneth picked her way over to the desk, leaning against it and crossing one arm over her chest, the other tugging at her braid. “I hope that Ru will be well enough to be there. Eamon’s certainly not wasting any time.”

He still wouldn’t look at her, instead transfixed on the flames. “She was looking much better today. Maybe it was the twenty or so health potions forced into her by you and the healers combined.” He sighed when his joking tone fell flat, dragging a hand over his hair.

“Her question...Morrigan’s--?” Even now she couldn’t get the words out and she bit her lip, scrunched up her nose and looked hard at the knolled wood of the floor. Outside the cracked door Eamon’s staff bustled in and out of the halls. “Do you wish we had found another way?”

“I wish there _had_ been another way. But if your asking if I regret it or would go back and choose not to...no. We would have been mourning two Wardens today; whatever comes, comes.”

She let out a breath, head dropping. They would face it when they had to, when they had more to work with.  “Okay. For what it’s worth, Morrigan was more concerned with an ou for Ru than she did with any plans.”

Alistair looked over his shoulder at her, brow raised incredulously before he snorted out a worn laugh. “Why am I not surprised? If anyone could  break that witch’s stone cold heart it would be Ruinel.”

The next morning Ruinel seemed in better spirits, even if she eyed Baraneth with concern mingled with hurt when she thought she couldn’t see her. She was curled on the broad ledge of the window sill, breathing in the fresh air from the crackled window with a pillow clutched to her still-bandaged arms. Not all of the pallor had faded from her face, but her eyes were brighter and there was some color returning to her cheeks.   
“Ferelden’s Wardens will need someone to take up the role of Warden Commander, with Duncan gone. Would either of you consider…?” Baraneth rested her elbows on her knees, sitting on the single chair that had been sitting sadly in the corner of the room, propping her chin on her hands. “Otherwise it’ll fall to me, and while I don’t mind splitting my time between queen and Warden duties I--”

“I’d do it.” Ruinel blurted out, leaping back to life from her thoughtful stare out the window. Her ears tinged pink asher cheeks flushed and she  glanced at her sister sheepishly. “Unless you had aspirations to…? Or unless there’s some protocol...”

Laurel looked at her sister with something she couldn’t read in her expression, slowly shaking her head. “I didn’t even think of it, no. Zev and I had been considering what to do after this was all over and that...wasn’t it. Would you really want to take on that role?”

“I want to.” Ruinel clasped her hands together, tucking them under her chin. “To find a place in the Wardens...to help them come back from Ostagar...I think I could find happiness doing that.”

Baraneth smiled, putting to bed the discontented awkwardness of the young elf and yet still offering a caveat. “I don’t think there are enough Wardens left in Ferelden to mandate a protocol. But it would be starting from the ground up. Alistair and I have been talking and we’re thinking of taking Arl Howe’s lands and giving them to the Grey Wardens as a place of gathering. Like what Weisshaupt once was. But it wouldn’t be easy.”

“Nothing in the Blight has been easy. But this at least offers some purpose.” she pulled at a fraying edge of her bandages. “I know I’m young, but I can do it. I don’t want anyone to take the position that doesn’t want it, that wouldn’t do anyone any good.”

“I was never a question of age. Age became irrelevant when you struck down the archdemon.” Baraneth tapped her intertwined fingers idly on her knees. “It’s only what you want to do. I won’t force you into this, or anything. Even if you wanted to go live in the middle of the woods never to be seen again.”

Ruinel giggled, ducking her head. “I don’t have any desire to vanish into thin air like some wilds witch with potions and brews.”

“Good, I’d prefer to keep you around.”

Laurel wrapped her arms around her knees, shifting back and forth. “So..Warden Commander. My little sister…” she murmured. She smiled softly to herself and her sister beamed at her, bobbing her head up and down.

“It feels right. But I don’t know where I would even begin.”

Baraneth shifted, crossing her legs underneath her. “It would all be a decide-as-we-go but Alistair and I have been talking and we think that we will grant the Grey Wardens Howe’s lands of Amaranthine and Vigil’s Keep.” Ruinel nodded, a small frown twisting her mouth as her eyes went unfocused for a moment.

“Amaranthine...okay.”

“It wouldn’t be easy.” She warned. “I don’t know what the state of the Keep is and you would need to build the Wardens up from nothing. I admire that you want to take this up but I don’t want to overface you.”

She was silent for several moments, fingers toying with the bedspread draped across her. “I think...I think I would be able to do it.”

Laurel stirred from a thoughtful silence, reached out to put a hand on her sister’s arm. “You wouldn’t be doing it alone, not all of it.”

Baraneth rested her hand on Ruinel’s knee, nodding her chin out towards the window, where Denerim stood tall despite the smoke still rising from some of its quadrants. “Amaranthine will be far less recovery than Denerim ever will be, if it’s any consolation. I believe you could make it Commander, but only if you want to.”

“I’ll be able to handle it.” she repeated, more forcefully, more sure. She pushed herself taller among the cushions around her, wincing slightly still. Laurel started to reach for her before settling back, reluctantly. “I don’t want the sacrifice of the Wardens at Ostagar to go unnoticed, I want the Order to be able to survive. If that’s where I go after this than so be it.”

There was a certain conviction in her voice that Baraneth hadn’t heard in a long while--maybe not since she had vowed to give her life to the archdemon should the worst come--and hearing it again now warmed her through and through. “I’ll speak to Alistair about it and if all goes to plan your title will be announced tomorrow; the Wardens aren’t under the Bannorn’s jurisdiction, you should be granted it without fuss.”

“That fast.” Ruinel blinked slowly, _whooshing_ out a breath. “You’re not wasting any time. But I accept.”

A soft knock on the door broke off their plans and she knew there was no picking it back up when Leliana stuck her head through the door; not from the way Ruinel’s entire expression softened or the way her lips parted in a silent sound of relief.

She dipped her head in acknowledgement to Leliana, gave a little wave to Ruinel and swept out of the room before the door had fully closed. There would be time to finish planning, they could breath now, they could relish in young love and start to live life as more than a fleeting thing now. 

It would be a hard change to make. 

* * *

  


“There are…a lot of people out there.” Alistair’s brows knitted as he looked across the hall, the very same hall where they had faced the Landsmeet only days prior, with it’s high ceilings echoing the noise back to the outer hallway. Ferelden citizens were packed in tight and the great wooden doors opened out to the streets beyond that were swarming with a sea of people. There was a single path between them cleared for them to wade through after the ceremony. Unofficial as this coronation may be, really just a formality and a way to affirm the fact that neither of them had been killed during the Blight, the people wanted to see them. Were clamouring to hear and see their heroes. Their monarchs.

It was a lot for Baraneth to take in and Alistair was reeling more than her. “And they all expect me to not run screaming at the sight of them?”

She laughed, an amused exhalation born from her own nerves than any true laugh. Smoothing her hand across the ornately embroidered half-cape draped across Alistair’s shoulder until her hand settled on his chest, she followed his gaze out to the people. Next to his armor--cobbled together from various pieces in the royal palace’s armory, she felt underdressed, even in a tunic bearing the heraldry of her family. Her Grey Warden armor would have sufficed and yet her handmaidens--or the kind women who kept insisting they were her handmaidens despite her vehement denials on needing any such help--had all but ripped the armor from her hands while she had balked at any needlessly formal dress.  “I think they expect you to ride in on a shining white griffin like the tales of old. Especially with a Warden just ending the Blight. ”

Eyes darting to her and narrowing in amusement dampened with worry, Alistair hummed nervously. “Right, well, I think we’re short a griffin. Did someone check the stables?”

“Every inch of it. Even the rafters. Must’ve got it in it’s mind to fly off in the middle of the night.” Despite the fact that there was absolutely no griffin and hadn’t been for years and wouldn’t be so far as she knew, it settled her nerves to quip back and forth, easing each of their nervous tension. No doubt their advisors would have berated them for joking in what was meant to be the the serious matter of swearing an oath to lead Ferelden under the watchful eye of the Maker, or so they liked to keep reminding them both.

“I think the bird had the right idea.”

Even so, out of the corner of her eye Baraneth watched the Chantry mother finish the last of her preparations and lifted a hand and rested it against Alistair’s cheek in a mirror of the way he blocked the rest of the world for her, drawing his eyes to hers. With his brows pushed together  and eyes that were soft and expressive as a mabari’s he looked a bit like a kicked pup who just wanted to tuck its tail and hide.

The worry melted into warmth when he looked at her, something in his posture easing.

“Alistair, it’s going to be alright. We’re together in this, remember?” With the gentle pressure of her hand she guided his lips to hers, the kiss fleeting but sharing fears and worries and washing them away, however briefly with a simple gesture.

When she pulled back, drawing her hand with her he caught at it, cradling it in his own and pressing a kiss to the back of it. “Together.” He repeated before his heavy exhalation brushed across her knuckles. He closed his eyes and when they blinked open again they were filled with a set determination and a half smile quirked his lips as the Chantry mother summoned them. “Shall we make a good first impression then?”

Hand in hand they turned to face the crowd through the doors, and stepped onto the dais dancing with the colors of the sun through the stained glass windows and lighting down on them. Above them heavy, ornate fabric draped from the walls to hide the damage that lingered, pooling on the floor. Flags bearing the Theirin lion flew once more from the rafters, twisting in the breeze coming through the doors.

Eamon stood to one side, expression blank, gesturing for them to kneel before the Chantry mother standing at the center of the dais. They took to their knees before her, hands still grasped tightly together.

“Today we gather under the Maker’s smile to recognize the new sovereigns of our nation, and to dispel all rumors or mistruths that fester in the aftermath of our painful won battle…”

She went on, her voice fading into the background as she felt Alistair tighten his grip on her hand, saw his shoulders rise and fall sharply in a nervous exhalation as the Chantry mother swept her hands across both of their shoulders, some prayer to the Maker following in its wake.

“You may all greet your new king and his betrothed.”

She stood and when they turned to face the people of Ferelden, _their_ people, a clamouring of cheers broke out among the assembled, mounting into a roar as they raised their intertwined hands.

They were already accepted by them, in the wake of the Blight. Perhaps not loved but already their people were rallying behind them. As the cheers and clapping only began to grow, Baraneth allowed herself to smile

“My friends!” as soon as Alistair’s voice rang across the room a hush fell, respectfully yet simmering with energy. She could feel it lancing around the room, from person to person. “We are gathered to celebrate those responsible for our victory. Of those who stood against the siege of Darkspawn on Denerim there are two...well, three if you account for the beautiful warrior beside me,” When he offered her a secretive smile her knees almost went out beneath her at the mischievous glimmer in his eyes--far stronger than it had any right to be among so many people--and she offered a teasing grin in return.

“There are two who deserve commendation. And the woman who led the final charge against the archdemon is with us still, an inspiration to all she saved that day.” He looked pointedly into the crowd of their friends and Ruinel stumbled out, shoved by her sister, once again her her Grey Warden robes.

Baraneth waved her up enthusiastically, smiling as Ruinel looked back towards her sister and then towards them. When Laurel didn’t come forward, shaking her head with fever, her ears and cheeks reddened and Alistair gave a soft chuckle. “Or perhaps just the one. May I present Ruinel Surana, one of the Heroes of Ferelden and the first Grey Warden to defeat the Blight since Garahel four centuries ago.”

Despite her elegantly pointed ears, despite the sister that had stood at her side bearing the marks of a Dalish elf, Ferelden’s people cheered for their hero just as they had for the king and queen. With the background noise of their clapping and ruckus Ruinel bounded up the steps, tucking herself next to Baraneth. Her eyes jumped between the crowd and Alistair, tall and imposing in his armor in a way he had never truly been in their travels, until she nudged her forward to face him. “He won’t bite, Ru.” she murmured. “Trust me.”

“Okay.” She squeaked, and yet when Alistair extended a hand towards her her shoulder straightened and she took it, trembling ever so slightly.

“My friend it is hard to imagine how you could have aided Ferelden more,” Alistair softened his voice from the strength it needed to carry to the doors and immediately something in the elf seemed to relax. “I thought it would only be fair to repay the favor. Any request that you might make of Ferelden’s king, if it is within my power then I will grant it. “

She highly doubted it with truly within his or their power to make such an offer and were it anyone else but Ruinel that generosity may very well have been abused. “I ask nothing of you for myself in return for the work we did for Ferelden.” Ruinel shuffled her feet, looking back at Baraneth and then back up to Alistair. “But I would like to see the sacrifice of the Grey Wardens remembered.”  

They had already spoken on it, but still Ruinel glanced for confirmation from her, more trusting in her than she ever would be in Alistair, even after a year of trying to trust each other with their lives. She shooed her back to attention with a wave of her hands; it wasn’t her who was going to issue the grant. She may be able to advise Alistair on his ruling and make degrees independently of and alongside him, but if he didn’t stand on his own then Ferelden would collapse around him, its people just as wary as Ruinel.

“Of course.” Alistair was getting nervous now, shifting back and forth. “With the ongoing investigation into the attack on Castle Cousland and the subsequential stripping of the Howe’s land from their family, Amaranthine will go to the Grey Wardens to do work with as they see fit. You will be taking leadership of Ferelden’s Wardens, will you not?”

Ruinel nodded sharply. “I will.”

“Then congratulations, Warden Commander Surana, Hero of Ferelden; you and your Wardens get a fresh start.”

“Thank you,” she paused. “Your Majesty.”

As soon as he dipped his head in acknowledgement, the title seeming to only further his discomfort Ruinel turned tail and fled from the dais, pushing back into the throng of their friends and disappearing back out of the eyes of the spectators.

As soon as the short ceremony and acknowledgements quieted Baraneth hurried off the dais, zeroing in on the man she desperate hoped her eyes weren’t deceiving her on. “Fergus?”

It _was_ him, he turned with the largest smile on his face, catching her when she practically tackled him in a hug. It had only been a year since she had seen him, but Maker be damned if it didn’t feel like a decade. For too long she had thought him to be dead just as their parents were, just as her nephew and sister in-law was. “I thought you were dead.”

Fergus’s arms went around her for only a moment before he stepped back, planting his hands on her shoulders. “When I heard what happened at Highever I thought the worst. But then I heard you were not only a Grey Warden but also leading the fight against the darkspawn horde...I didn’t know what I would find here.”

“I’m so sorry about what happened to...they were...I tried.” Baraneth’s mouth went dry as she tried to speak, every iteration of what had happened to their family sticking in her throat. Instead she reached into the angry fire that still festered in the corner of her mind and fueled her words with that instead. “But Howe is dead, I killed him myself.”

Fergus’s hands dragged up and down her shoulders, her expression darkening. “Good. I only wish I had been with you to get it done. I’ve been informed Highever has been returned to me. It’s going to be strange without...without everyone there. And you won’t be returning with me.”

It wasn’t a question but Baraneth answered it anyways, rocking back and forth from heel to toe. “No, I won’t. I have...other obligations now.”

Fergus smiled sadly at her. “Queen of Ferelden...obligations is one train of thought. Mother and Father would be so proud of you for what you’ve done...I hope that you’ll at least visit home.”

The thought of returning to Highever sent her heart hammering but she forced a nod and a quip anyways, voice tight. “Of course I will. You can’t escape me that easily.”

If anyone could restore Highever to its former beauty it would be her brother, but without their parents at the head, without their staff that had become a surrogate family running through the halls it would always feel hollow to her.

Fergus looked over her shoulder, a slight frown pulling at the corners of his mouth. “Ah, so this must be your betrothed approaching, then.”

“Betrothed.” Baraneth repeated faintly, thinking very hard on the fact that they had already broken at least one tradition of royal ceremony, pivoting to follow her brother’s glare. Alistair was walking over to them, gait easy as he smiled at people that rushed forward to grasp gratefully at his arm.  

“Bara,” Alistair took one look at her expression and tilted his head in a silent question. He worried too much about her, she was hardly going to bring about the end of Ferelden or her own sanity from one conversation with her brother. Though from the way her brother was looking hard at Alistair it occurred to her that they may end up with one less monarch before he was even coronated. The thought did little to amuse or comfort her, not when she couldn’t read where this tension stemmed from. “You must be Fergus Cousland, I believe we spoke...indirectly as it is.”

“We did. I suppose I should thank you for returning Highever to my family and taking down the Howes. I was a little shocked when I heard my little sister would not be returning with me.”  Oh Maker take her, if this was well meant but misplaced brotherly concern as to who she was marrying then she may just have to put her foot down and banish Fergus back to the Korcari Wilds.  
“Fergus,” She said warningly, Alistair looking at her in thinly veiled panic. They had prepared to face the intensity of a hundred, not the intensity of one. “Don’t.”

She glared at him, trying not to look like a petulant child when he met her look evenly. “Am I not allowed a little concern? I leave and don’t see you for a year and find out your set to marry a man who is unknown to anyone but you? Father would have my hide if I didn’t at least look out for you.”

Forget about the Maker taking her, let the Maker smite her where she stood. “Well you can be well assured that Mother is doing a happy little jig about this arrangement. You don’t need to look out for me!”

Alistair cleared his throat, eyes darting between the two warring siblings. She had yet to decide if Fergus was well and truly serious or if this was some dry attempt at a joke, but Alistair solved it for her. “If...if it makes things any better I’m Alistair Theirin, it’s a pleasure to meet you.” He held out a hand and when there was no move to take it he coughed, bringing to rub over the back of his neck instead. “Right. If things were a little different I suppose I would ask you for permission to marry your sister but.... _well_.” He looked over at Baraneth guiltily and she closed her eyes briefly, dragging her hand over the lower half of her face before daring a glance up at Fergus.

She really shouldn’t be surprised at the scandalized look on his face. “ _Baraneth_ , were you going to tell me you were already married? When?”

“Keep it down.” She hissed. “Would you like the whole hall to hear that their pretty, fancy little ceremony is going to be worthless? And not long, just before the darkspawn attack.” She couldn’t keep the pout of her voice. “And I don’t see what the _issue_ is. Alistair is a good man and I love him. He’s been by my side since the beginning.”

Fergus sighed and just as she had another sharp remark on her tongue he held up a hand to stay her. “There isn’t an issue. I just worry for you, pup, that is all. You have done so much, and taken so many leaps all on your own.”

“Leaps as they may be you need to trust me.”

Another sigh, heavier this time but his eyes softened. “I do trust you, pup. You’re just….you’ve grown up so quickly.” he fixed Alistair in his stare again and he shrank back. “You be kind to her, be good to her.”  

“I wouldn’t ever dream of hurting her.” Though his words were directed at Fergus he looked only at Baraneth, the warmth and honesty in his eyes filling her with a fuzzy feeling and she stepped nearer to him, tucking herself under his arm.

“Fergus,” she said firmly but softly. “I am _happy_. I’ve found my path and the one I want to walk it with. Isn’t that what you told me when you married Oriana?”

Fergus appeared taken aback for a moment before laughing in earnest, throwing his head back, practically shaking with the force of it. “That is it, you have a wonderful memory for exactly what will come back and bite me.” His expression softened with some emotion she couldn’t identify--pride, perhaps? “I trust you, pup. I want to see just how far you’ll go.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! As always feel free to come yell at me on tumblr and I will see you guys next chapter. We're finally getting to leaving the Blight behind..


	5. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Baraneth and Alistair begin their tour around Ferelden during the mourning period post Blight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy *shit* long time no see guys. My greatest apologies for the wait and thank you so much for your patience. This chapter was both a pain in the butt for me to write (stubborn muses!) but life has also just been crazy...luckily for you, the next chapter is all set to go and then we should be ready to rock :') 
> 
> I'm not thrilled with this chapter, it's not the best work I've done...but after this we're on to bigger and better plot points, so stick with me!

**_Chapter Three:_**

_9:31 Dragon_

“So this...this is ours.” Looking around the royal palace, or what remained of it, Baraneth felt small and out of place. It was nothing like her sweeping estate in Highever; it’s halls were a gridlike map she couldn’t work out and everywhere she looked there was some symbol of Ferelden, as if people would forget they were in the southern country. Carved Mabari twined around the base of the pillars, looking stoically across the halls and the timber of the walls and ceilings was sturdy, the moulding intricately detailed with carvings.

Highever had been all homely, large enough to accommodate a full working staff and the Cousland family alongside any visiting dignitaries comfortably. The stone walls had been hung with tapestries of all kinds, warding off any chilly lifelessness the stonework might have given off and the grounds had been large and winding in their pathways.

Right now, it was in ruins.  

The royal palace was too.

Rusty stains spread across the floor from the fighting, gouges in the wood from blows of swords digging deep. The hanging banners proudly waving the Theirin lion and tapestries on the walls detailing Ferelden life were tattered and scorched. Once lifelike wooden renditions of mabari were missing snouts and ears, their bodies charred to ash.

What had she got them into? There was so much work that needed to be done here, so much work that needed to be done across the country.

“It’s seen better days.” Alistair agreed, his hand caressing the small of her back as he paused beside her, surveying the damage himself. The battered hall they had been acknowledged in had offered no insight for the destruction inside the palace itself. It looked as though a pack of wild beasts had been let loose to live inside the grand halls. “But I think with a little love and care it’ll spiff up really nicely.”

She scoffed, trying hard to siphon off of his optimism. A country to rebuild, a capital to rebuild, and a home to rebuild. What was simpler than that? “Have you heard anything yet from our advisors dearest as to what we need to do?”

Arl Eamon had placed himself in their court and despite Baraneth’s reservations on the man she had yet been able to justify bringing up his expulsion from the process no matter how hard she thought, and he had done nothing but hound them with a list of this and that waiting for them to sign off on. She had thought that _perhaps_ as sovereigns of the state they may have gained a moment to breath. She had thought very wrong.

“In fact I have. Eamon was reminding me to be ready for the coronation. Six months from now. It’s customary, or so I’m told, and while my...Cailan died well over six months ago it’s been suggested that with the Blight we wait another six. To allow people to mourn properly.”

Baraneth nodded along, she was familiar with the custom and others to go along with it. “So in the meanwhile we...wait around here? Help rebuild? I would rather not sit idle.”

Alistair twiddled his hands together, knitting and unknitting his fingers. “I was thinking about that...it’s not uncommon for the monarch to tour around their provinces. To get all the way round Ferelden...that would take up a majority of that time. Our people could see us, meet us. Maybe we could help where we could.”

He looked at her uncertainty, not yet confident in his own ideas and she couldn’t help herself as she seized his fiddling hands, bouncing up and down on her toes as the possibilities that hadn’t even crossed her mind began to throw. “Alistair that's brilliant!”

She beamed up at him even while he blinked, surprised. “It is?”

“Yes, it _is_ .” at her enthusiasm, he began to smile too, uncertainty slowly giving way to tentative confidence in the idea. He was always going to make the king she knew he could be, it was just a matter of unlocking those beautiful ideas that lurked behind his careful eyes. “Ferelden loves us as _people_ , as the humans, figuratively, who fought and ended the Blight. If we start our time off with helping them rebuild we’ll further cement that idea. They can get to know us just as we get to know them.”

“You’re brilliant.” Alistair breathed, nodding along as her trains of thoughts connected with his.

She shook her head, a small amazed motion. “No, Alistair, this is yours. Take it.”  

  


The next few days were a flurry of activity. Eamon accepted their proposed idea without complaint, agreeing with almost a surprised begrudging that it was an idea as good as any and a better foot to start off than many monarchs previous.

Gwaren to see to check the state of affairs for Anora, Amaranthine to reconnect with the Wardens, each and every bannorn that would take them in between and they were going. It  came with organizing, pouring over map after map of Ferelden just to see what bannorns they held in their nation. Ink stained vellum from traced over routes, routes crossed out and then redrawn once more until they found the paths that were the safaest and the fastest.

One point, a dark dot in ink, gave Baraneth pause each and every time. Highever, always the last stop they made in the northernmost reaches of Ferelden and always the place she wanted to return to the least. She pitifully made claims that it wasn’t fair to trouble her brother with them on his doorstep, that Highever would not yet be rebuilt, _anything_ to not return. Their advisors simply brushed over her complaints and only Alistair even paused to listen to her futile pleas.

“Hold for a moment on the planning, please.” Alistair finally broke in, raising a hand to stall the conversation.  

Even as they planned and planned and planned again they were rebuilding their palace, their _home_ now, dressed in loose linen shirts and trousers and lifting heavy wooden planks to patch walls and doors much to the chardrin of their staff.

They worked their way through each wing of the palace, resetting overturned furniture and hauling out what was beyond repair for scrap, helping in any way they could until they would leave for their several month journey. Rumor had it that it would be fully functional and restored to its grandeur by their return. Looking round them as they worked, Baraneth couldn’t imagine it once again grand after so short a time. They finally made it to their wing of the palace, where they would be able to flee for privacy when their work began for real, finding it in much better array than the lower floors.

“At least there's still one room that is intact.” Alistair grinned, looking at her from the corner of his eye. It was true, the royal chambers were barely touched as she looked around, everything left as the servants had made it the last time it was touched before the fighting broke out.  She smiled slyly back at him, not protesting when he drew her close.

“And there’s no one around.” she added, voice low. “Just us--” her words were lost in a kiss, long and slow that left her still somehow wanting more. She curled her fingers along the back of Alistair's neck, tugging him back to her and smiling against his surprised noise.

Maker, but it had been too long since they had been able to absorb each other’s presence, to be with each other outside the ever watchful eye.

He leaned into her kiss, soft but demanding, capturing her in the circle of his arms. She dragged her fingers through his hair, growing shaggy in the last month of the Blight. No doubt they would tame it before ever presenting them in the public eye of the coronation but for now she savored running her fingers through the silken strands, nails biting into his scalp when he nipped at her lower lip.

She would gladly have let his hands that encircled her hips pull at the laces of her dress, would gladly have let his lips that claimed hers trace down her neck and across the sharp lines of her collarbones as had happened in the soft light of the campfire during the Blight. But she felt his sharp sigh against her neck, warm against the cool absence his lips left. Unable to bite it back she whined petulantly, trying to follow his movement. “However much I do wish to continue,” he murmured, voice husky. “Perhaps we should not...the Maker may smite us with lightning.”

“The Maker will _not_.” Baraneth growled. “It didn’t happen during the Blight.”

Alistair kissed her again, softer and without the same heat this time, but unfairly teasing all the same. He laughed, deep in his chest and low, when as he pulled away she pressed onto her tiptoes to follow as long as she could. “Patience, my love, we don’t want to give anyone who would doubt us any more foundation than they already have.”

That logic cleaved her libido clean in two and she frowned. He wasn’t wholly wrong, she didn’t know how particular Ferelden’s people were to be about the...binding of marriages, royal or no, and while she doubted any breach of that would come to light it wasn’t a line worthy of toeing. “Since when did you become the logical one?”

That earned her another little chuckle that sent a thrill through her, and one last kiss. “Ever since I decided you need a break.” He pressed a kiss to nose, then to her forehead, lingering longer than was perhaps proper. “Though it goes against every desire of mine to turn away.”

Baraneth shoved playfully at his chest. “Don’t tempt me. I am quite ready to throw tradition out the window.”

Alistair caught her round the wrists, pressing a kiss to each set of knuckles, eyes twinkling. “Already planning to break the rules. Perhaps that is why we’ve never had a Cousland queen, you would see Ferelden fall to your change.”

He was enough to completely undo her, it was truly unfair, and with an effort she stepped away, skirting around him to stand in the door frame, planting her hands on either side of it. “Well, if we must maintain such proprietary I won’t call your bluff. I do believe I left some letters to our banns left unsealed.” She smiled at him widely, innocent as she watch his frustration at his own decision simmer.

Before she could go back on her own choice she blew him a cheeky kiss, disappearing around the corner, calling back “I’ll see you later, darling. I’m sure Eamon will want to speak with you on the tour.” over her shoulder. Her laugh tailed her down the hallway as she heard Alistair’s grumpy groan at the task of speaking to Eamon any more on their impending tour.

By eveninging’s fall her hand felt as though it would never uncramp, her skin stained with ink from letters she had inked and signed. Amaranthine, Gwaren, Dragon’s Peak, Highever, even the Denerim Alienage, all letters were sent by raven and awaiting response.

For now, there was nothing left to do. It was a strange, suffocating feeling instead of freeing, as if she had forgotten something terribly important. But no advisors came knocking at her doors, the list she had inked in her own hand was crossed off and long tried.

She found herself back in their bedchambers, eying the bed with its plush looking blankets and pillows and polished and carved bed frame hopefully. The idea of sleeping in the bedchambers of their late king and no-longer queen consort was off putting and she was almost ready to pull some of the spare covers from a cabinet along the wall and find one of the spare rooms until she placed her hand on the bed to reach the tall cabinet latches. Her hand sank into the mattress and without a second thought she let the rest of her body melt onto the bed as well with a blissful groan. “ _Maker_ a real bed.”

It had been too long since she had slept on anything other than a bedroll or a lumpy spare mattress and this felt like heaven itself embracing her. Even those she had slept on in Eamon’s estate had been worn with guest use, dipped in strange places that left knots in her back and shoulders.

She shifted so that her legs were on the bed as well, pressing her face into the soft, fresh-smelling cushion of a pillow and breathed out a sigh of pure bliss.

“Am I interrupting a moment?” Alistair’s voice was wholly amused, nearly startling her off the bed. Once her heart had settled back into her chest where it belonged and she regained the balance she had nearly lost in a flinch, she contemplated throwing a pillow at him, decided they were far too precious, and instead groused.

“Don’t mock me until you come over here. A _true_ bed, Alistair. I don’t think I’ve ever felt anything so nice.”

“I don’t think I believe you-” Alistair laughed, arcing a brow as he toed off his boots and came to flop alongside her nonetheless. Not a second after landing he let out a muffled groan as his aching muscles were swallowed by the mattress. “ _Oh_. I stand corrected.”

She giggled, shoving his arm. “See? And we’re going to be back on the road again soon enough...it seems like such a tease…”

Alistair's arm groped around until it wound around her, pulling her closer into the dip both their bodies formed in the mattress. Her giggling intensified as he grumbled like a bear woken during hibernation. “Much like someone _else_ I know. Do tell, how long you insist on torturing us both.”

Squirming around and nestling into the feathery softness of the bed she made a face at him. “I am _not_ torturing us! I am following the law like a _proper_ lady.”

Alistair rolled so that his weight settled partially on top of her, pushing her into the pillows, so that he could look at her long and hard. This close she could see the golden flecked in his dark eyes and it set off that curl of heat in her, the way his soft intensity always seemed to bleed into. His grin was absolutely, tortuously rakish. “My Baraneth Cousland, a _proper_ lady?” he questioned, raising an eyebrow. “This is news to me.”

“Well it is simply how it is going to be now.” Baraneth sniffed, turning her nose high in the air. “‘Tis only proper that a queen should act with her noble upbringing.”

He hummed at that, sticking out his lower lip as he looked at her, even as one thumb trailed deliciously across her lower lip. “Perhaps I miss my lady Cousland who had a surge for adventure.”

She looked up at him from beneath her lashes, pushing her lip out in a mirrored pout. “I still have my adventure.” hooking her leg behind his back she heaved up, flipping them and settling across his hips. “But _I_ simply am harboring it for later. For something _grand_.” leaning forward she splayed her hands across his chest, lowering her voice conspiratorially even as Alistair’s eyes widened. “And I would love to avoid our advisors murdering us before our reign starts.”

With much more restraint and grace than she cared to show she relinquished her hold on Alistair, sliding back over to her claimed side of the bed. “And so we _wait_.”

Her husband pushed his head back into the pillow, flinging an arm across his face and muffling what sounded like a curse and a groan mixed into one. “You’re impossibly stubborn.”

“I prefer to call it...fixated on the goal.” Snuggling closer again, this time without the teasing heat, she rested her head on his shoulder. “Maybe this is just all some Bannorn staged test.”

Alistair cut a sideways look at her, the corner of his mouth quirking up in a half smile. “Now you’re just making conspiracy theories to justify your stubbornness.”

She pursed her lips, holding Alistair’s look for only a moment before an exasperated exclamation escaped her in a _pfft_ . “Alright, alright, _fine_ , I’m just being stubborn. But for posterity's sake.”

“Posterity's sake.” Alistair said, curling his fingers in air quotes. “You never cease to amaze me with your justifications.”

“It’s a talent.” Baraneth shot back with a grin, burrowing close to Alistair’s side and grinning up at him. Her grin faltered. “Should...we actually be doing something?”

Alistair thought for a moment, turning his chin up to the ceiling. “Hm...well, we’re spending much needed bonding time together, I think that counts as something. They do say monarchs should get to know each other…”

“That’s only with arranged marriages.”

Nonetheless she didn’t protest when Alistair’s arm wrapped around her hip, pulling over close to him again. The fading late evening sunlight highlighted the floating specks of dust floating about the shame shade of gold that gleamed in his eyes this close.

“Can we just stay here?” she sighed contentedly.

“Nothing’s stopping us...for now.” Alistair made no move to stir and she decided in that moment that if anything were to truly be going horrible, irrevocably wrong then their staff would be able to find them.

For now though...as Alistair said. “Well, I can’t argue with that.”

 

As the sun set at  the end of the week her ravens were all returned, all bearing enthusiastic responses awaiting their arrival. There was a flurry of activity as the packed and sorted what they could; dresses procred for Baraneth out of what seemed like thin air--one for the warmer parts of the nation, light and flowing, one heavy and dark with a mantle made of heavy fur for the coldest--and doublets for Alistair stuffed into bags and thrown into carts.

Within the week they were bridling and saddling their horses--two Ferelden Forders from a horsemen in Redcliffe’s arling that had leapt at the opportunity to resupply the royal stables--and a handful of their staff, people they had not been able to even meet by name yet, were hitching draft horses to carts and wagons.

Baraneth attached her small traveling pack--a force of habit more than a necessity--to the back of her saddle, her sheathed sword hanging alongside it. She may be Ferelden’s queen now but she’d be damned if her first act as queen regent was to be skewered by raiders on the backmost roads. Maybe it was a relic of her warriorhood, maybe it was self preservation; either way none of their staff gave her a second glance.

In fact, most were turning to her for their direction, all but the scouts falling behind her. Alistair trotted along beside her, expression focused with enough force that it seemed like he was in pain.  

 

While many in their caravan seemed bothered by the long days of riding and the short nights of pitching tents and catching what rest they could it was achingly familiar--albeit easier distances and better supplied--to Baraneth.

She wouldn’t return to the horrors of the Blight, Maker knows she wouldn’t ever want to, but there was a sickenly soothing facet to curling up with Alistair in a tent with the hum of night around them. While their heads rested on softer bedrolls instead of piled up clothing and the quiet around them was broken by the snorting of horses and footsteps of men and woman it was far more familiar than the walls and bustle of the royal palace.

The trees rustled around them, the night breeze ruffling the canvas siding of their tents. From outside she could hear the crackling of the remaining fires meant to keep the night guards’ warm and alert.

“Alistair,” she whispered.

“Mmm?” he murmured against her shoulder, arms tightening around her.

She traced her fingers over the back of his hand; she could feel him starting to drift off again as she idled, his breath slowing against her skin and his forehead growing heavier against her back. “Are you worried?”

The longer the night drew on the more it felt like cotton had been stuffed in her throat, spilling down into her chest in an increasing tightness. There was no reason that she should be afraid...the Bannorn had accepted their stance. But a Bann or Arl was not their people. History lessons of monarchs driven from their crowns by mobs of dissatisfied subjects swirled to the forefront of her mind in mocking caricatures of her and Alistair.

Alistair hummed again and she felt him shift, his hand coming up to trap her restless fingers in his own. “You’re overthinking again, love.”

“And you’re not?” her brows knit. “And I don’t overthink.”

“ _Bara_ ,” even with her back turned she could practically see the smile on Alistair’s face. “You overthought yourself sick before every major day we faced during the Blight, don’t think you can fool me now.”

“And you _aren’t_ worried?” she repeated, voice not above a whisper.

His laughter was a barely audible, not even amused. “Of course I am, if I let myself think too much. The key is to just...stop your mind from time to time.”

Her lower lip popped out in a soft pout. “I don’t think I can just...stop thinking.”

His lips pressed a soft, contemplative kiss against the back of her neck, sending a tremor down her spine. “It’s best you try...it’s going to be a long few months elsewise.”

It was the sort of quiet wisdom that Alistair did not usually let break free from himself, the sort that left her shaken and seemed to come from some depth of himself that even Alistair couldn’t pinpoint outside of those moments.

It left her disquieted more than soothed and she snuggled deeper into their bedroll, tugging Alistair’s arm that rested across her closer into her grasp.

 

They rode first to Dragon’s Peak, a spoiling close ride to Denerim. Settled just on the northern edge of the Brecilian Forest it was a small territory; it was not much more than a modest, main village with an equally as modest estate on the far reaches, satellites by smaller homesteads and farms.   

Their procession trotted along the uneven wooden road, Baraneth and Alistair at the forefront and as they clattered by heads began to poke out of the farthest reaching steads. When the village rose into view ahead of them the road was lined with spectators, whispering amongst themselves until a few of them raised tentative cheers. It caught like wildfire, the cheers and thanks washing over the monarchs like a wave.

Alistair shyly smiled, lifting his hand in a wave with Baraneth following suite, the crowds beaming up at them at the returned greeting. They were all wary of each other, that much was certain; after the loss of so much it was only fair that they were to be suspicious at the first new monarchs shoved their way.

Bann Sighard waited for them at the open gates to his estate, the wrought iron thrown aside without concern to any threat. She had met Sighard in recent memory only twince, in Denerim in the Gnarled Noble Tavern and then on the floor of the Landsmeet. He looked much the same, a wizened old man with a dirty grey beard and hair, the years of his life etched in lines and wrinkles on his skin.

The wrinkles around his eyes crinkled up with the smile he gave Baraneth, walking over to her horse and placing a steadying hand on its reigns.

“My lady, I’m glad your travels have treated you well, it is an honor to have you and your people here.”

Baraneth’s eyes widened in surprise, her eyes jumping to Alistair--his brows knit in a subtle confusion as he stared between Baraneth and Sighard--before turning back to the bann himself. Addressing her first wasn’t just a breach of courtesy, it was denoting her as the head of state, not Alistair. It was subtle, it may have just been a mistake; nonetheless it was a resonating mistake that whispered among their staff.

“Thank you, Bann Sighard.” she cleared her throat, dipping her head respectfully to him. “The roads have been easy and safe, thankfully, though I think we’re all happy to finally be in such hospitable company.”

Taking his hold on her horse’s reigns as a signal that they weren’t to ride any further she slid her feet from her stirrups. Before anyone could offer her a hand down she dropped to the ground, stroking a hand down her horse’s neck before supplanting her hand on the reins where Sighard’s hand was. “Where might the stables be, once we take care--”

“Let my stable hands take care of the horses, please, it would be their honor.” Sighard worked the reins from her fingers again, handing them off to a stern looking woman in hay spotted breeches before Baraneth could even begin to voice disapproval. She saw that stable hands had seemed to fly from the woodwork to begin taking the harnesses from their caravan drawing horses, leading away the individual horses--leaving Alistair standing in the middle of the fray looking lost. “We have much we need to talk about.”

“Of course,” there was a frustrated edge in her voice she tried to dull; he was simply doing what was becoming of a bann hosting a monarch to do, but giving complete agency over to staff was not within her nature and she had no intentions to allow it to become so. She raised her hand to Alistair, calling him over. “Let me simply wait for my betrothed, these are matters we must discuss together.”

 _Betrothed_. The falsified word felt wrong falling from her lips; she should proudly be able to proclaim Alistair as her husband, her equal in ruling instead of people looking to her. They were to be a united front, not a pair for the people to choose one or the other and if it was going to be tradition to get in the way of that then it would be tradition that would have to yield.

“I don’t believe I had the chance to speak to you solely at the Landsmeet, but I truly am indebted to you for saving my son from Arl Howe’s imprisonment. That wretched man should never have laid his hands on so many for so many awful acts.” Sighard’s tone was bitter, if conversational as they walked, striding up a path lined with fresh smelling flowers to the stairs of his estate.

Baraneth felt his eyes linger on her and tensed, a gnawing in her gut worrying at what she was sure was going to be his next condolence. She was sadly not disappointed. “Yet another matter I never approached you on...my deepest condolences for what happened at Highever. I knew your parents well...I respected them quite dearly.”

The day passed long, filled with looping conversations that had Sighard spending more time trying to get more of their aid and time than they had to give. By the time they were able to close themselves within the cushiony room proffered to them on the upper floor of the estate her mind was frazzled, thoughts barely able to connect. The ones that did left her feeling ill, her stomach twisting into knots.

“Love?”  Baraneth called Alistiar’s name softly from their bed, working at the ties of her loosely boned corset and slipping it off in favor of a softer night gown that puddled around her. She could see her reflection in a hastily polished mirror across from the bed, the burn of traveling pink on her cheeks and her hair frizzed from hours spent in a braided bun.  

Alistair looked up from idly stroking Ailwife’s muzzle, the hound’s head resting like a heavy stone in his lap and hummed his acknowledgement.

She pushed herself off the bed, settling down next to her husband on the floor before the hearth, running her fingers through the thick fur of the bearskin rug. “Does it bother you?”

“Does what bother me? The long hours of riding? The...stereotypically Ferelden food that seems to share more in common with dirt and sludge than food? Not particularly, but…” he trailed off as she looked down at her fingers. “You’re not joking are you...what’s on your mind.”

“Does it bother you,” Baraneth began again, frowning at the brown and grey fur beneath her. “...that everyone looks to me and not you?”

From her peripheral she saw Alistair’s hand pause in its ruffling of Ailwife’s scruff. “You mean when the people great us? The banns and arls and ladies and lords, maybe throw in the hounds for good measure?” When she didn’t laugh, but instead just nodded, he reached forward to pull her hand from where it plucked at the rug, clasping it in his own.

“Baraneth, I am thankful for it. I have no idea what I’m doing, that they defer to you is some form of the Maker’s kindness. I would not be in this position if I did not believe in the future we’ve dreamed of together for Ferelden, I wouldn’t be here alone.”

She winced, a sharp spine of the fact that this was not a decision he would have made solely on his own digging under her skin and his thumb brushed over the back of her hand in soothing, insistent circles. “If anything they turn to you because they know you. Everyone knows the Theirin name, but they don’t know the Alistair attached to it. For all they know I could be some common boy pulled from the Tevinter Sewers in some conspiracy...sorry, that wasn’t called for; but darling they know you. All these banns and arls know the Couslands and they’ve seen little Baraneth grow up to become the savior of their nation. I would be concerned if they didn’t look to you, you hardly have as much to prove as I do.”

“Does it not offend you?” Baraneth whispered.

“Harm my ego? Break it like some fragile eggshell? There’s no ego to break.” Alistair laughed lightly. “I did not take this position out of arrogance, I took it for Ferelden. I am not jealous of you, I have never been, only in awe, and I would gladly defer to you just as many of our people would.”

In her mulling silence Alistair ducked down close to Ailwife, getting the hound’s attention. “Hey, hey, your ladyship is upset.” Ailwife looked up as he pointed at Baraneth, ears flicking. “See her? Yeah, go get her. We can’t have her being sad here.”

Ailwife gave a little grumble and Alistair nodded as if the hound had spoken to him and Baraneth’s lips quivered in the slightest hints of a smile. “See, you understand, but you have to go get her.”

The hound grumbled again, pushing himself to his feet and padding over to Baraneth, shoving his face unceremoniously into hers and offering slurping mabari kisses until her hands flung up to cover her face and she fell into a sniffling fit of something close to strangled laughter. “Alright, alright, point proven for tonight.”

Alistair was smiling when she finally pushed the hound away from her face, letting the mabari settle instead of his heavy head in her lap. Moving across the floor he sat down next to her, wrapping an arm around her shoulder. She leaned into his embrace, resting her head on his shoulder with a soft exhalation. “I feel like we are walking on thin ice, like if we make one error everything will shatter around us.”

Alistair’s hand rubbed up and down her arm. “I don’t believe things are that life and death, everyone around us seems just as uncertain as we are. And I think they’re just as happy to give us some leeway, so long as we’re giving them a break from the horror they’ve seen.”

“When did you become so wise?” she breathed, turning her face into the soft fabric of his shirt. She felt more than heard his laugh rumble through his chest.

“Wise? Bara, I’ve just been listening and seeing how the people we’re greeting look at us, how they talk about us.” he nudged the side of her head gently with his thumb. “Love, you’re getting too caught up in your own head.”

A bitter noise worked its way out of her throat. “That does tend to happen.”

His hand stroked down through her hair. “Stop thinking for a little bit, you’re going to stress yourself into an early grave, remember what I said? Rest.”

She hummed in ascent, though reluctant, and tucked her knees closer to her. Before she even recognized that her eyes were closing she had drifted off, only waking the next morning somehow warm in their borrowed bed instead of curled on the floor. The sun wasn’t even up yet; she rolled on her side, blinking wearily at flickering candlelight, to find Alistair  already up, studying something laid out on the knolled oaken desk in the corner. He felt her eyes on him and looked up, waving her back to sleep.

“You’ve still got a little while Bara, go back to bed.”

In a sleepy haze she hummed, burying her face back in her arms and nestling deeper into the blankets without question. She heard the rustle of vellum, the soft noise of a quill being put down, and felt the bend sink under Alistair’s added weight.

The next morning dawned far too soon after she had closed her eyes. Whatever the Bann deemed most important that required her-- _their_ , she insisted forcefully--was trifle at most. Dragon’s Peak had not been hit as hard by the Blight, his struggles had all been personnel within the Blight and even more so centered within Denerim. Already they were solved and after a day’s rest to recover their horses and recoup they were on the road once more, trotting down the very road they had entered with throngs of people still gathered along the sides to cheer and wave.

Gwaren was a ghost village when they rode in--it’s buildings torn down to a shell of their former selves, darkspawn corpses littering the ground and its once beautiful port torn to shreds. There were no people gathering on the roads to wave their welcome, only a few scarce souls peeking their heads out from broken down hovels. Those too stubborn to have left when death seemed immediate and lived to tell the tale.

There was not much that their caravan could do, they didn’t have the supplies to rebuild an entire bannorn in only a few days. They barely had the supplies to rebuild a small lean-to; all of their supplies in other Blight stricken places had been gathered by the villages already. They hadn’t had the caravan space to bring a craftsman’s supply of tools and materials all the way across Ferelden.

Instead their scribes took notes, surveyed the remains of the village to bring back to the Bannorn. Anora would want to know what she was riding in to when she returned to the teyrn. At that time she would have the backing of planned supplies, of renowned craftsman and resources to bring Gwaren back to its former glory.

It was the least they could do for Anora, to restore her former home to what it had once been, and it was the least they could do for Ferelden’s greater standing. A broken down teyrn was a broken down nation.

Leaving Gwaren, it almost felt like some of the ghosts followed, whispering in the wind that end of the tour was riding into a murky dusk.

Edgehall arrived in silence. Only the sound of hooves on a packed dirt road and the rattling of the wagon wheels filled the silence left by the members of the town and its surrounding villages lining the sides of the roads. Their eyes were shadowed and while some waved they were far and few between, most dropping their hands within seconds of waving them.

The creepings of dread started to wind their way up through Baraneth’s conscience and she glanced over at Alistair on instinct. His eyes were darting around the crowd, narrowed in a way she had only seen in the heat of training or battle.

She hoped to write it off as paranoia, their own shared discomfort and strangerhood towards the unpredictable crowds. With a small exhalation and a roll of her shoulders she tried to do just that, eyes wandering to a small undulation in the crowd. Murmured voices were crowing louder and the crowd wayed like wheat stalks in a spring breeze.

Through her eyes followed the movement when a young man spilt from the masses she still startled, grabbing a fistful of her horse’s mane when the creature took a darting step aside, head coming up with a flare of its nostrils. With little care for whether the horses were still moving or not, the man threw himself in front of Baraneth and Alistair, forcing both to pull up their horses.

“My...sir, move out of the way.” Alistair said, bluntly even with his stumble. “We’re looking to pass,” _Don’t you have eyes_? Was sarcastically, and conveniently left out, but Baraneth could hear it in the undercurrents and that was enough for her to loosen her fingers’ grip on the mane and straighten her own shoulders.   
“I will not let pretenders step into our lands!” the man’s eyes were frenzied as he threw his arms out to the sides as though his frame would block the path. He seemed oblivious that both standing in front of him could withstand any attack of his without difficulty.

Guards were starting to encroach on either side, hands on the hilts of their swords and an insane stubbornness reared inside of her; cowering behind guards was unthinkable, and she moved her horse to block their path, holding out her hand to halt them. “Pretenders? Good sir, please do explain yourself.”

The man’s eyes darted between the guards, Baraneth, and Alistair wildly before his lips twisted in a sneer. “You cannot truly miss my meaning. Loghain was the true ruler of Ferelden, and you put your sword through him in treachery!”

It was an incredibly reckless whim, but she pulled her feet from her stirrups and slid off her horse onto the ground. Even standing tall with her shoulders pushed back the man was still a full head taller than her, his cold eyes turning downwards to glare at her. Behind her, her horse shifted restlessly, bridle jangling. Around her a hush seemed to fall across the assembled, all protests dying unspoken.

“Ser, what is your name?”

“You...pardon?” some of his fire spluttered at the question and the corner of her lip quirked up, her nod sharp.

“Indeed. If you’re to shout at me then at least give me the pleasure of knowing who you are.” When still he remained silent she inclined her head. “Do tell, I will not use it against you.”

“Geoffrey,”

“Tell me, what did Loghain promise you then, Geoffrey?” Baraneth repeated matter of factly.

Now the man’s fire was waning, she could see it in the way his eyes darted to the ground and stayed. “Loghain was the true king for Ferelden.”

“As you’ve told me.” Baraneth gentled her voice, as though trying to get a snarling mabari to lower its hackles. “But you’ve yet to tell me why.”

“Because...he stood for a strong Ferelden. One that wouldn’t be taken by Orlais again, one that would defeat the Blight.”

She hoped her nod was placating and not mocking. “I see. Ser...the Blight has been ended, but not by Loghain. Orlais poses no threat to us and the rumors that speak of any danger are simply that.”

The man shook his head, backing away until he hit the wall of bodies--the crowd had pressed in closer, transfixed. “I cannot bring myself to believe you. Gell Lendon has said otherwise and I have not seen my supposed rulers until now. You cannot win me over with pretty words and promises.”

Her brows rose, already storing Lendon’s name in the corner of her mind. The poor man before her was correct, she had done nothing to earn his blind trust, he knew nothing but her and Alistair’s names and names did not speak for the quality of a ruler. Nonetheless she dipped her chin. “You make a good point, one that I cannot argue with.”

Letting her voice project, though she doubted the need with the way the crowd pressed around them, the way they held their breath. “For those who share the same sentiment, we will not beg for your love today. But follow our actions and we _will_ prove to you that we mean for a better Ferelden. We stand for you, for our nation and our pride.”

When she looked back at the man the defensive lines of his shoulders had eased, though his eyes still snapped and burned with suspicion. “Please, move from our path. We need to speak to your arl.”

“You’ve got a lot to prove, lady Cousland.” her muttered, eyes darkening, though he stepped back and let himself be absorbed into the sea of the crowd. Within a breath he was gone.

“ _We_ ’ve got a lot to prove.” Baraneth corrected softly in return, pressing her lips together before turning back to her horse. She could feel the displeasure radiating from their staff, even Alistiar’s expression was unreadable.

Swinging back into the saddle, she gathered the reigns back into her hands and adjusted her skirts. “Shall we press forward?”

It wasn't a suggestion, not really, and the caravan rattled into motion behind her.

“That was an incredibly dangerous thing to do, Bara.” Alistair’s voice was light but a deeper worry lurked below. “You don’t know what he could have been hiding.”

She snorted, rolling her eyes. “I did what was going to earn his trust. I won’t hide here on my high horse,” a little laugh.  “when our people do not trust us. That does nothing but show weakness, show fear.”

“I should expect nothing less.” Alistair ducked his head, exasperation layering over the worry. “I fought the Blight with you, you’ve stood toe to toe with golems and not flinched.”

“It _was_ dangerous.” she conceded. “I’m not in heavy armor anymore...but I cannot be afraid of them, _we_ cannot be afraid of them, just as they cannot be afraid of us.”

Alistair nodded, offering her a soft smile that softened his worry before it fell away as they approached the main keep of Edgehall. “If that’s how the arl’s people are, I imagine he will not be the most welcoming.”

“That will probably be an understatement.” Baraneth said under her breath, sharing a knowing look with him. “Prepare yourself, he’s going to test us.”

Gell Lendon was about as amiable as a spitting snake upon meeting, silently scheming and vocally oppositional all at once. Never once did he toe out of line enough to warrant any action action against him, but by the time they retired for the night in rooms crawling with dust and webs, Baraneth and Alistair both had crescent shaped marks on their hands from the bite of their fingers.

It was a blessing to leave the grey halls of Edgehall behind, the snarling face of the arl burning into their backs as they rode away with the promise that they would prove themselves to their people.

Spite, if nothing else, hardened that promise in Baraneth’s mind.

 

By the time Amaranthine rose in the distance ahead of them, with large stone walls and sloping forests Baraneth’s hands were beaten by labor, her legs aching from straddling a horse day in and day out, her entire body wailing from helping build boats, helping put up framework for homes, and for helping lift fallen doors back onto their hinges.

There was no feeling she’d trade for the world. It was every bit of work that had given her thrills during the Blight, every callous that bit into her palm that was a mark of a task well done.

In nearly every bannorn or arling they had stepped foot in they had left behind somewhere that had a little more hope, a little more light, so long as they allowed it. Whether it was simply seeing her and Alistair alive, laying to rest awful rumors that they had been killed by the archdemon or going further to stand alongside the people living in the Blight’s aftermath and help them piece together their livelihoods, their homes, once again so long as the people had wanted to accept their aid they had been there to give it.

She didn’t know what to expect from Amaranthine, she knew nearly nothing about it except that it had belonged to Howe, a woman by the name of Esmerelle now claimed bannship of it,  and that Vigil’s Keep now belonged to the Wardens.

Esmerelle did not greet them as they road to the gates of Vigil’s Keep, the city of Amaranthine lying behind the fortress. Instead it was a sea of navy and silver that greeted their caravan, a sea of arms fisted hands lifting to their hearts. The metal gates struggled with the groans of rust as they were heaved open.

“Ru!” At the end of the procession stood the Warden Commander. She looked shockingly different, older and far more comfortable in her own skin, surveying the poise of her charges with undiluted pride on her face despite the fact it had only been a matter of weeks. Her mage robes had been traded out for the armor of a Commander, plate overlaying her chest and intricately engraved with the symbolic griffon, though for this occasion she had kept her arms bare of gauntlets.

“Bara!” She lit up when Baraneth got closer and dismounted from her horse, a wide smile splitting her features and against all rules of etiquette she broke rank to scamper forward, squeezing her tightly in a hug. When she stepped back her smile turned sheepish, a flush spreading from her cheeks up through her ears and she offered a small, stilted bow. “Or should I say, your highness?”

“None of that, come here!” Baraneth scoffed, pulling Ruinel back to her so that she could properly hug her. After a year of traveling together day in and day out being apart from her dear friend for the few months since she had gone into Amaranthine were near painful and she wouldn’t let etiquette turn her and their relationship to stone. “It’s so good to see you.”

“And you!” Ruinel stepped back, hands on Baraneth’s arms as she glanced at her with a smile. Her eyes traveled over the--far too intricate for her tastes--travelling dress she had all but been laced into against her will. “You look amazing, just as a queen should.” She traced the embroidery down the sleeve of Baraneth’s dress, a glint of irony in her eyes. “It’s strange not seeing you in armor.”

She shook her head with a _tsk_ , looking at Ruinel admonishingly. “Not queen officially yet _,_ you best not treat me any differently.”

“Perhaps not, but you may as well be.” Ruinel signaled to the Wardens and they relaxed, hands coming down from their salute. “And _I_ will not treat you differently for it, or I will try not to. ‘Lo Alistair.”

“Hello Ruinel,” Alistair greeted, leading both his and Baraneth’s horses over while the remainder of their caravan scrambled about in an attempt at organization. It drove her mad, not being allowed to help with the settling down, but every time she tried she was beaten back. _You don’t need to worry yourself, my lady_ . _You have more important matters to attend to, your highness_. It didn’t matter if she wanted to help or not, the answer was the same every time.

“You seem to have the Wardens well under control.”

Ruinel glanced around at her group, only about ten or fifteen people at most, eyes shining with pride as she nodded. “They’re coming together. Recruitment isn’t high, obviously, the Blight’s just ended and I don’t want to conscript unless I have to; we don’t need a poor reputation. But they’re a good bunch. I see bright futures for them.”

“Have you found any griffons? Wynne always used to talk about griffons.” Alistair asked wistfully, follow her look out across the Wardens, who began to mill about among the staff that had come with their caravan, helping with horses and making conversation. Whether he was wistful for the life he had given up or simply the excitement of establishing the order, she wasn’t sure, but her throat tightened with the same fear as the night previous.

“Not yet.” Ruinel sighed, crossing her arms and cocking her hip. “I would rush you into Vigil’s Keep but it isn’t exactly the best kept now, nor is Amaranthine’s estate.” She wrinkled her nose. “It smells like Howe.”

“A scent that will take a long time to fade.” Baraneth quipped, raveling that fear into her deep seated displeasure with the Howe name. It was easier to grab onto.  “I am sure you’ve chased all the treachery out of the place. You’re doing well, if your Wardens are anything to go by.”

A pleased tinge of pink brushed across Ruinel’s cheeks as she gave a small smile. “It’s not just my Wardens who are learning. I’ve learned a few new tricks as well, some augments to my spells; one of my recruits, Velanna, has been teaching me some spells that the Dalish use. It’s strange to work with magic I would have learned like second nature if I hadn’t been stolen by the Circle.”

“You’re going to have to show off some of those skills to me. It’s been too long since I’ve sparred.” Her injuries from the Blight had long since healed, all the tenderness of her muscles and bruises fading with it, but she had not had the chance to pick up a blade with their travelling and planning and she was itching for the chance.

Ruinel offered her a sly smile. “We’ll need to sneak away. I’m sure your pack of Fereldens won’t be too hard to trick.”

Already they were walking away from the group without incident, deeper into the Keep’s courtyard towards the gates that she imagined led deeper into the fortress itself. It hit her that among all the Wardens she hadn’t seen the one person she had expected to see at Ruinel’s side.

“Where’s Leliana?”

Ruinel’s expression darkened, lips pressing together as she scuffed the ground with her boot sole. The life about her seemed to dampen and she looked askance. “She never came with me. The grand cleric summoned for her, it was something she couldn’t refuse.”

Baraneth winced, ducking her head. The happiness that had permeated the area around them had receded, replaced with a quiet grimness as Ruinel fell into thought and she was one more reminded of how young she was to be figuring this all out on her own.  

She just had the memory of the two riding from Denerim, side by side and waving back over their shoulders; it was nearly impossible to imagine that that image was already broken. “I was under the assumption that Leliana had planned to travel with you.”

With a stiff shrug Ruinel chewed on the inside of her cheek.  “She had planned to. And she was with me, for a time. But Leliana has always served a higher purpose, answered to some lofty power that I do not comprehend. I understand it, I respect why she left.” She sighed deeply and shrugged again, looser and looking back at Baraneth with a mustering of bright energy that clearly she didn’t feel.

“At least Laurel is still here though! For now.. She’s been a blessing in helping organize everyone, even with the seneschal's help it was a lot in the beginning.”

A group of Wardens were relaxing ahead, leaning against the Keep’s stone walls and sprawling across the ground, chattering. Ruinel started towards them, barking out. “On your feet! I’ve someone I’d like you to meet!”

The recruits scrambled to their feet; a human mage, a human rogue with sharp features, and a elven mage with the swirling tattoos that could only mark her as Dalish.

“This  is Anders,” Ruinel introduced, extending a hand out to the mage. “He and I were in the Circle together, though I was too young at the time to pay much mind his way.”

Anders was a bright eyed man, with a mischievous glint hiding a darkness that harbored secrets of what he had gone through. A single loop of gold sparkled in his ear and his dusty blonde hair was tied back from his face, brushing the collar of his navy Warden’s robes. A tabby cat perched in his arms, looking at Baraneth with curious eyes. “It’s good to meet you, Anders.”

Anders grinned wildly at her, giving a mocking little half bow in her direction. “My lady, how wonderful to meet you. Do tell me you won’t be as circumstantially blind as your predecessors.”

“I don’t think I catch your meaning.” she looked to Ruinel, confused, who in turn glowered at her recruit. It wasn’t spoken with the caustic tone of the men and woman that despised her and Alistair, but there was an edge in her voice she didn’t know how to place.

He looked back at his commander without remorse, something gleaming in his eyes that suggested that this vein of pushing the line was not uncommon. After a moment Ruinel softened, rolling her eyes to the sky.

“Don’t mind him. I do imagine it was some snide comment on the Circle and mages. While I do not contest his beliefs there is a _time_ and there is a _place_. And this is not it.”

“Of course not. Discussing politics with the queen herself on a tour of her country is not a good time or the right place.” Anders lifted his hands in surrender when Ruinel’s look sharpened back into a glare. “Fine, fine. I understand, Commander.”

“I will try to do right by your expectations.” Baraneth said carefully, interrupting. “And do the change that I am able.”

Anders lifted his eyebrows, letting out a soft whistle. “Well would you look at that, I think that’s honesty that I hear. We truly do have ourselves a Common Queen.”

“I will take that as a compliment.” she shot back shortly, and Anders outright laughed.

“A queen with a bite. I like it.”

“ _Anders_.” Ruinel warned.

He lifted his hands higher, as if surrendering further though there was no remorse written on his face. “Sorry, sorry. Perhaps this is my cue to go elsewhere with Ser Pounce A Lot?”

“Uh-huh,” Ruinel hummed pointedly, turning her eyes to the sky again as he turned and strutted off. “Creators help me.” she turned back to Baraneth, giving a small shake of her head and a quiet laugh before gesturing towards the rest of her crew.

“This is Nathaniel Howe. He was a contested recruit, but has proved above and beyond his merit.” Ruinel nodded to the grim looking man and he straightened his relaxed posture to attention under her watchful eye, even while Baraneth went deathly still. She could see it now, the pale eyes, the sharp features.

“Nathaniel I assume you’ve heard the name of your queen Baraneth Cousland.”

“Please to meet your acquaintance my lady--” He broke off what felt like the stony recitation of a greeting born from noble raising and those stormy eyes honed in on her with a look that burned as if it would kill. “My lady _Cousland_.”

“ _Howe_.” She tried, oh she desperately tried, to keep the venom from her own voice and knew she must have failed from the way Ruinel’s eyes shot wide. The air around them, while dancing with bright sunlight, seemed to become ripe with a chill.

She forced a polite, tightly closed lipped smile onto her face and clenched her hands into the folks of her skirt. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Nathaniel.”

A sneer twisted his features and she thought vitriolically that she could see the resemblance between father and son. Residual anger burned in her gut, though from where it came from she wasn’t sure. “No, the pleasure is mine. Finally seeing the woman who murdered my father draped in fine furs and silks, with land both her own and not gifted to her, and the king of Ferelden wrapped around her little finger.”

“You’re father deserved the blade he got.” Baraneth curled her fingers deeper into her skirt to keep from lashing out. “You’d best remember that it was your father who murdered my parents, Oriana and her little boy, my entire _staff_ in cold blood; he was a traitor to the state at _least_!”

Ruinel wedged her lithe body between them, splaying a hand across Nathanial’s chest and shoving him back a step. Despite his stature against hers he gave way, moving back. “Nathaniel enough!  This is your queen that you address.” When she faced Baraneth she was stern, cowing her under a warning look.

“Baraneth, I know what Rendon Howe did to you but you got your vengeance. Nathanial is not his father and he is a man changing. Do not take what happened at Highever out on a man who was not even privy to his father’s plot.”

She hissed out a breath between her teeth, forcing the tension in her shoulders to ease. “You are right, of course. My apologies Nathaniel.” The words felt like nails being dragged from her but out they came and Nathaniel regarded her cooly for a moment before offering the slightest of nods and nothing else.

With a nod that was more reverent to his Commander, he clasped his hands tightly behind his back and Baraneth saw the worn leather of dagger hilts, before hidden by where his hands had been resting.

“I believe I will take my leave, if that is alright by you, Ruinel.” He said shortly, eyes fixed somewhere over Ruinel’s head. The elf woman’s ears flicked, her eyes narrowing before she sighed.   
“Go ahead, Nathaniel. Go cool your head.”

He stalked away, hands still knotted tightly behind his back with a too-stiff posture that betrayed his turmoil. Baraneth’s own hands were clenched tightly in front of her hand she forced her fingers to loosen from their fist, flexing them gingerly and rubbing where her nails had bit sharply into her skin.

“You,” Ruinel nodded to her, a reprimanding look on her face and an edge to her voice that simmered with frustration. “are coming with me. You’re taking me up on that sparring offer now, whether you like it or not.”

“I should really see if Alistair or the others need help--” she started on reflex before Ruinel cut her off with a scoff.

“Your husband can manage without you for a time, even it doesn’t always seem like it, and your people didn’t seem to want your aid.”

Baraneth shifted her weight, biting down the urge to bounce up and down on her toes in a childish show of reluctance. “ _Ru_ , I don’t know..”

“You don’t need to know,” Ruinel brokered no argument as she hooked her arm through Baraneth’s, giving a small wave to a few curious members of the caravan. “You just need to follow me. I’m sure an intelligent noblewoman such as yourself can work around a riding skirt.”

She was correct on that and guiltily thinking back to all the skirts she had dirtied in the rebellious training sessions of her childhood, Baraneth bobbed her head, letting Ruinel pull her along. “I can tie a skirt.”

“Good. I knew you were smart.” Where there could have been a nasty bite in Ruinel’s words there were only a teasing affection, the frustration giving way for the time being. “We have plenty of weapon stores, you won’t need to worry about anything of yours.”

The Grey Wardens, for being few in number, _had_ amassed a fairly large training weapon stock. While all of them were not in the best of conditions--some were slightly rested, or dull, or maybe a little bit bent, they were all functional enough to train a small fighting force. Whatever Ruinel had been doing in the few months since traveling here, she had been doing well.

Baraneth paused to hike her riding skirt up above her knees, twisting and tying the swaths of fabric into a knot tight enough to keep them up and out of her way. She hefted up a knolled wooden shield she had pulled from the stores and a sword that felt balanced enough in her hand. Already Ruinel had grabbed a staff from the wall. As she brushed her hand across the wood to try and clear some dust away Baraneth saw that it was the same staff she had used during the Blight--worn and scratched as it was, with its tattered feathers and carved halla horn charm tied round the top.

“Alright, now tell me what’s really going on.” Ruinel walked away from Baraneth, adjusting her grip on her staff. When she pivoted sharply on her heel, calling a small bundle of archaic magic through the weapon and sending it to Baraneth she caught it with her shield.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” she batted away another surge of magic, cursing when it left a thin sheen of ice over the metal.

Ruinel spun away, catching Baraneth across the leg with her staff as she dodged her charge. “That was the weakest lie I’ve _ever_ ,” she grimaced as the flat of Baraneth’s sword tapped her side. “heard you say in the history of your half truths.”

“ _Maybe,”_ Baraneth growled, grabbing Ruinel’s staff hand and putting just enough pressure so that she dropped the glorified wooden stick. “I just can’t see how you can trust that damn Howe!”

Sweat gleamed on Ruinel’s brow and she puffed a curl of red hair out of her eyes. A whisper of magic seemed to crawl across her skin, buzzing through Baraneth’s senses and before she could react her feet were sinking into thick foliage that tangled her boots, sending her stumbling as they thickened and tightened. Ruinel twisted, capturing Baraneth’s wrists and pinning them together. “I think that he is redeemable and he has proven himself as such. He has no connection that what his father did. But I don’t think this is about Nate.”

She tried to jerk away, nearly tipping over as Ruinel held tightly and her feet tanged more in the vines and brush. When the elf only raised an eyebrow expectantly she realized she had little choice but to answer, or at least subject herself to listening to Ruinel. “I don’t know how you can think this is about anything other than Nathaniel Howe.”

“Baraneth,” there was a bite in Ruinel’s voice that demanded her attention. “Tell me, where is your stop after Amaranthine and Vigil’s Keep?”

“Highever.” she growled out the state like it was poison, part of her balking at the fact that she could think so horribly of returning to the place that she had once loved.

“And you don’t wish to return?”

Baraneth scoffed, like it was the most obvious thing to her and all others around her. As if the thoughts in her mind were already laid bare in front of her instead of pushed back deep inside her own mind. “No, not at all. But I don’t have a choice.”

“Howe will no longer be there, none of them will be there.” Ruinel caught her again with her staff, sending Baraneth staggering back several steps. There was no opinion in her voice, leaning neither in her way or Nathaniel’s way and it frustrated some small, angry part of Baraneth.

“No, but--”

With the manner of someone who already knew what she was going to say, Ruinel cut her off. “So what _is_ there? What is there that makes you so afraid?”

“I’m not afraid!”

“You _are_. You are avoiding my question--rather poorly--and you are lashing out, trying to cover for...something. What is it you’re so afraid of there?”

“Nothing!” Baraneth slammed her shield into Ruinel’s staff arm, sending the young elf reeling back and nearly sending her to the ground.

“Nothing?” Ruinel didn’t fall, righting herself with breathlessly rising and falling shoulders. Her cheeks and ears were flushed with exertion, but her voice was still impassive, questioning.

What Baraneth had disguised as anger had since dissipated and with a start she realized Ruinel had been driving her to abandon all thought and just _work_ , work out fears and frustrations and anything in between just as they had done countless times during the Blight. All the fight had drained out of her without her even knowing it. “I...there will be nothing there. It may as well be a different place.”

“And you don’t wish to return to that nothingness. You want familiarity and you can’t get it back.” Ruinel nodded as if she understood and Baraneth felt the plant tendrils and vines release her and ease away until it was simply dirt once again. Ruinel’s eyes glazed over for a moment before she shook her head.

“Sorry, still getting used to drawing on that kind of magic. But keep that real reason in your mind. Acknowledge it. And don’t take it out on my wardens.”

Her shoulders slumped and Baraneth hung her head, scuffing her toe in the dirt. “I’m sorry, Ru. I...should have better control over my temper.”

“You should.” the matter of fact statement made her wince and Ruinel’s sharp tone dulled. “But you can’t be perfect all the time--and I’d rather see you struggle here where people will turn a blind eye.”

“Will they though..turn a blind eye?” Baraneth fretted. “The Wardens...how do I know I won’t face judgement from them as well?”

“They don’t see you as a Warden.” the Commander spoke point blank. “Not anymore, they’ve only focused on those that came to Amaranthine and play the role of Wardens from the first.” Without allowing any more debate Ruinel marched them back to the weapons store, replacing her staff lovingly on its wall pegs before turning to Baraneth, untying the loose knot she had secured her dress in and beating the dust off of it. Though she had to strain onto her toes she reached up to pull the tie and pins from her hair, letting the dark waves fall around her queen’s shoulders.

“Chin up, my lady,” she said with a grin. “My wardens won’t let a sad face stand.”

As they walked into the great hall, Baraneth had to admit that Ruinel had succeeded in making the space clean and homely in the few short months she had been instated. A grand fire crackled merrily in its hearth at the far end and long oaken tables stretched in a horseshoe shape, clustered with the handful of Wardens laughing over drink and food that smelled divine enough to make her mouth water.

“You all couldn’t have at least _waited_ ?” Ruinel cried, hands planting on her hips. “You absolute _heathens--Alistair?”_

The king of Ferelden looked up guilty, caught in an animated conversation with the golden earringed Anders--a dusky tabby cat purring in his lap--plate heaped with food just like the Wardens around him. Baraneth hid a smile behind her hand as Ruinel rolled her eyes, her ears flicking in her pinpointable sign of irritation. “Oh I swear to the Creator’s a Dalish halla has more manners than you lot!”

Most just blinked at her owlishly until Anders shooed the cat from his lap and stood, giving an exaggerated bow. “My royal liege, Warden Commander, we welcome you most humbly to dinner. Better?”

Laughing outright at that, Bara brought a hand to cover her face as Ruinel murmured something vehement in elvish. “Good enough, better than the rest of you. Don’t let us keep you from eating, clearly you all are starving.”

Alistair pulled the chair out next to him for Baraneth, looking at her with a silent question as she settled in, shifting her skirts and fiddling with her napkin over her lap just to win herself a few moments.

“Don’t worry about it, Ruinel just wanted to talk to me.” she finally said, glancing at him from the corner of her eye as she piled food onto her plate. The corner of Alistair’s mouth quirked up and he worked a small leaf from her hair.

“Seems like it was quite the talk.”

Underneath the table she looped her pinky finger through his. “It was...a much needed discussion. Our little Ru has unearthed some treasure trove of wisdom since we last saw her.”

“Perhaps I simply exercise my mind, unlike the both of you.” Ruinel smoothy interjected, not looking up from the roll she was buttering, though an amused smirk was twitching her lips.

Alistair nearly choked on his drink, squeezing his eyes closed against a bitter swallow. “Or perhaps her new title is going to her head?”

At that Ruinel did look over, a gleam in her eyes. “That’s quite the accusation, _your majesty_ now wants to talk about ego boosts?”

Pointing his utensil at her, Alistair grinned. “That’s where you’re wrong, I haven’t the attention to spare for myself. It all goes to my queen.”

“For... _yuck_ .” Ruinel groaned, pulling a disgusted face as Baraneth burst into giggles. “You two are _awful_.”

The banter carried all throughout dinner, the atmosphere was warm, and the food was homely...part of Baraneth wondered if this was some approximation of the scene Alistair had told her the story of back in the Blight; the memory of bellowing laughter and copious drink seemed to echo through her husband’s eyes as he looked around.

She hoped it was, for comfort’s sake or some kind of sign that the Wardens were already beginning to come back when the rest of Ferelden was still sowed with the pain of the Blight.

  


Dawn came quickly the next day, rising in milky pinks and oranges over the hills and trees. Ruinel wore both gloves this morning, bouncing up and down on the balls of her feet and puffing out her cheeks against the cold. Baraneth herself pulled a fur lined cloak around her shoulders, feeling the chill nip at her nose.

“I don’t want to see you go.” Ruinel admitted, teeth grazing her lower lip as she looked up at Baraneth. “But I suppose I can’t keep you here forever, the Warden Queen needs to return to her throne eventually.”

Smiling, she reached out to rest a hand on Ruinel’s shoulder, curling it over and tugging her close into a hug. “I think most see me as   _Cousland_ Queen...but I guess tomorrow will solidify that, will it not?”

Ruinel wrapped her arms tightly around her waist, as if she could squeeze her misgivings away. “Don’t fret about Highever, remember what I told you. Let your people welcome you home.”

“Home…” she murmured, unconvinced. “But I should trust you, little Ru, you’ve yet to steer me wrong.”

“I would never intentionally do so.” the elf cleared her throat as she stepped back, eyes shining slightly in the morning light until she swiped the back of her glove quickly across them. “But I believe your people are calling you, best not keep them waiting.”

It proved to be true when she looked over her shoulder, her horse was standing restlessly in the center of the courtyard, with most of the drafts already hooked to their wagons and many of the single riders already mounted up. Though she had never once been here before, it pained her to leave now. Out of the meadow and into the lion’s den it seemed.

“Write to me.” she said sternly. “With anything. A struggle, word from Leliana, or even just about a splinter from training.”

“I will flood your rookery with my ravens.” Ruinel deadpanned with a smile even as it turned sad. “Be safe, Bara, keep your head held high.”

She reached out her hand, clasping Ruinel’s before starting to walk away, their fingers sliding apart. “I’ll try...Ru, you’re doing well here; I’m proud of you.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Onto Highever in the next chapter! 
> 
> Consider leaving a kudos or a comment if this chapter make your head spin, I know it made mine lmao, or if Baraneth and Alistair are still gross cuties~
> 
> Come find and yell at me on tumblr @captainderyn and thanks for reading <3


	6. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Baraneth and Alistair wrap up their tour with Highever, a bittersweet return and memories resurface. Bara confronts the night she was conscripted into the Grey Wardens and the realities of the home she left behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this:  
> -mentions of parental death  
> -general emotional heaviness and flashbacks (nothing graphic, just emotionally brutal)

_9:31 Dragon_

She wasn’t ready to return. Everything in Baraneth screamed to turn her horse around and gallop headlong back into the safety of any other bannorn or arling, so long as it was as far from Highever as she could get. The town sprawled in the hollow of the hills surrounding it, homely buildings gently spewing smoke from their chimneys, the Chantry rising proud at the center before the roads sloped up towards home, towards the Cousland castle.

From a distance it was as though nothing had happened, the stone structure was still as sound as it had been for decades, perhaps even centuries, nothing hinting to the horrors that had unfolded within its walls. It was a strange comfort to know that whatever Howe had done to her own home it hadn’t poisoned the homes of her people.

She could see even from a distance the small forms of horse-drawn wagons of goods rolling their way to and from the castle and into the marketplace and as they drew closer, her horse pushed along by the waves of the people behind them, she could see the streets had been prepared for their arrival.

The people of Highever were gathered along either side of the cobblestoned-streets, dressed in their working best with many clutching kerchiefs in their hands and pressing it to their eyes as she walked by. Many more tossed flowers and their petals over them, a colorful array landing across Baraneth’s lap and catching in her horse’s mane. Unthinkingly she reached out and caught one, a brilliantly colored wildflower, and waved with a smile far easier than she had thought possible to the young girl who had thrown it, hidden now behind her mother’s skirts.  

These people knew her, had known her since she was a small child. She had always been Bryce Cousland’s pup, the darling of Highever whenever she had bounded through the streets with her mother in tow or taken to the local establishments tailed by her mabari. How many hours as she spent wandering the streets alone, talking to everyone as they went about their lives? How many winters days had she spent around the fires made at the center of town as they had all gathered?

“Her lady Cousland returns!” echoed up and down the lines of people in hushed whispers and jubilant cries, the rumors of the past year finally being laid to rest. “It’s true!”

To them this was just her homecoming, a miracle offered to them by some higher power.  From their warm greetings towards her she may as well have been the sole member of the party, many seemed to forget that their king walked alongside her. Her fears echoed in her mind, bringing a sickening feeling to her stomach.  But then she focused on smiling at the happy faces around her, returning waves and leaning over to grasp extended hands as she passed and the feeling retreated.

There was something comforting in their joy, in their smiles and warm handshakes.

For the moment she could forget the looming shadow of the castle and the threat of facing it. For a moment she could forget the fears that they trusted not in their king, but in her alone and the strife that would cause.

She paused alongside a couple she knew to own the Antivan luxuries stall at the marketplace she had dallied around often, fascinated by the other culture’s intricacies. Beladona, the woman who couldn’t have been older than her mother was, grasped tightly at her hand while her husband paused her horse with a light hold on the reigns. The caravan continued on past her for the moment, close enough to the castle that she no longer needed to be the figurehead.

“It is so good to see you alive, dear.” Beladona pressed a hand with a kerchief to her mouth to hide quivering lips. “When we heard what had happened….well, no matter, now look at you. So strong and beautiful and now our _queen_. Maker bless you.”

“And you, Dona, for having such faith in me to return.” Baraneth smiled, feeling it falter and grow watery. She wanted to stay there, bask in the relief of those around her and bask in their happiness.

Her hand was released and she lingered for a moment more before steeling her nerves and trotting up to catch up with Alistair, who had paused at the base of the path that led up to the estate. She felt into step alongside him, their legs almost close enough to brush as he inched his horse nearer to her.

“Are you alright to continue?”

“I don’t have much a choice.” she worried her lip between her teeth, trying not to look up the path. She did not know what would lay at the top, only that the images of flames and dark nights refused to leave.

“You always have a choice. No one would fault you for it.”

“No,” Baraneth spurred on her horse, trotting up the rise of the hill. There were always those who would falt her and she wouldn’t--couldn’t--accept this weakness. “I don't have a choice. We need to go.”

She should have remained in the town, where at the least people looked on her with warmth and recognition and she in turn could recognize them and find some balm for her hurt.

There was nothing but surface-level respect from the staff gathered around the gate and inner courtyard of the castle, even as they brought their hands together in a polite greeting. Many of them bowed indifferently to her, murmuring mumbling greetings as she dismounted, reigns grasped white knuckled in her hands.  These people didn’t know her, these people didn’t belong here. They were just imposters trying to fill the shadows of those that she did know.

The reigns were pried from her hands, her horse led away alongside Alistair’s as the parade began to disperse. She turned unfocused eyes towards the frenzy, confused. She hadn’t heard the order issues to break, nor did she want the safety of the crowd to leave. She felt exposed Alistair appeared at her side, extending an arm to her that she linked hers through, clinging to him to steady herself as they walked towards the large wooden doors that were thrown open.

Fergus was at the top of the stone steps and strode down them as they approached, meeting Baraneth in a brief hug. His hands rested on her cheeks when they drew apart and he seemed to breathe easier. “I worried about you on the journey; there’s still so much danger on the roads.”

“You worry too much.” She admonished. “We’ve traveled safely and did not meet any ill will.” Edgehall didn’t count. Edgehall wasn’t dangerous, not outwardly.

He laughed as they stepped into the main hall and despite his jovial nature everything was wrong to her, barraging her senses. The banners hanging from the walls were too new, too fresh and unworn, the rug along the center of the floor unfamiliar. Most of all the floors were clean, floors that she could only see soaked with red.

She reeled back a step back, assaulted by the new and the old swirling around her, slamming into Alistair’s chest in her haste. His hands were steadying on her shoulders even as she sucked in a few deep breaths, steadying herself until she could straighten her spine and set her jaw. She would made it through, she would, she would…

“I believe,” she said delicately. “If it is alright I will take my leave from any welcome celebration. I...I need to…” she clamped her jaw against the words she couldn’t find, looked at Fergus pleadingly. She couldn’t face her people, not like this. She needed to gather herself, gain some time to put up a front, don a mask. He gave a wary nod, something deep and understanding welling in his eyes.

“I will send for you if we have need. They can find patience.”

Clenching tremoring hands into her skirts, lifting them under the guise of not tripping but really just needing to do _something_ to disguise how rattled she truly was, she began to walk towards the far door. It was pure muscle memory, that would lead her further into the grounds and to the kitchens where she would always try her best to nab treats from Nan despite her gruff admonishments, the same way she would scold Ailwife when he caused mischief too--

 _Nan_. Nan wasn’t here, she was instead replaced by some dour looking woman with all the sternness of Nan and none of the warm affection who looked at her with only an obligated respect. She doubted any tarts would be stolen from the kitchen now by any young ones, if the same sweets of her childhood would even be made.

She made it to the back of the hall, paces from the door when out of her peripheral she saw the chair--hardly a throne, more a worn armchair ever slightly more intricate with its stitchwork than the other chairs of the estate--at the back of the aisleway. It was where Papa would always hold the audiences he couldn’t hold in the dining hall with mugs of ale. It was where she had last seen him bright and well, without the blood staining his side and dribbling from his mouth as he begged her to leave with Duncan.

She could practically see him, hear him as he told her what to do with the estate while he was away with Fergus. Making her promise that she could handle the challenge. She could see Howe’s pinched, harsh face and the way he had looked at her father without any hint of his betrayal, they way Howe had dared to look at her and conversationally mention his younger son’s interest in her as if he wasn’t plotting a massacre.

Her hand flew up to cover her mouth, a measured breath turning sharp.

“Baraneth?” Alistair asked, concern etched in every syllable, his voice seeming to carry through several layers of water just to reach her. “Are you alright?” She nodded, slow and deliberate, but was unable to move from the spot she was now rooted.

Maker, she could still see the gouges in the pillars from hastily swung swords that had not been smoothed out, she could still hear the clanging of metal on metal as she and Mother had rushed in, hastily dressed in their bedclothes and armed only with what they could pilfer from the armory. The memory of the Cousland family sword heavy in her hands and shining with traitors’ blood.

“Perhaps it would be best for you not to go off alone.” Fergus broached carefully and she could hear his footsteps fast approaching. She was shaking, she could feel the tremor move up her arms because she could _still_ smell the blood in the halls, sharp and iron-filled, quickening her breath as she tried to expel the memory of it from her body and tried to escape it; she could still see it on the floors from the corner of her eyes.  

She flinched when Fergus’s hand landed on her shoulder, trying to get her to turn but her body wouldn’t listen. Instead she just faced that _damn_ chair, seeing without seeing. “If you wish...if it would help, I can bring you to where mother and father...if you need--.” he couldn’t seem to get the words out, if he could even find them in the first place.

A soft keening noise broke from her as the brittle strength of her knees snapped. She slid to the ground, arms wrapping tightly around herself.

She didn’t want to be back here, the air around her seemed to be trying to crush her and everywhere she looked felt like a poorly built mask to hide what she had last seen. Already that night was playing itself over and over again in her mind’s eye, unrelenting and brutal.

As if from the other end of a tunnel she heard muffled, talking, felt Alistair kneel alongside her and try to speak to her but it was drowned out by the buzzing in her ears because it was _real_ . What had happened was _real_.

While traveling across Ferelden she was able to push it from her mind, she was able to build walls high around the memories she promised she would break down later and never did. She was able to stop acknowledging exactly what had happened and cling to the hope that one day Papa would hug her close again and call her his pup, just as soon as they stopped the Blight. There was no time to mourn a slaughtered home when every night was a question of waking up the next morning, each day a challenge of survival.

Here, oh here, reality came crashing down violently around her. There would be no affectionate shouting at her and Ailwife from Nan, no exasperated scolding from the staff when she tracked dust and mud in from the training grounds by accident. Aldous wouldn’t pull her from the training yard just to try and impress some knowledge into the young minds of Castle Cousland and no longer would Papa’s knights teach her the art of swordplay.

She would no longer have her mother fuss at her with only warmth in her eyes, or have her father watch her progress with a blade appraisingly with pride in his eyes.  

She couldn’t even sob, her lungs felt as they were no longer her own, flailing like a fish out of water until the floor below her dimmed and warped grey.

She never should have returned, she should have stayed far away. Far enough away that she would still be able to be a naive little girl.

When finally the clasp around her lungs released she sucked in sharp breaths that felt like knives in her lungs, cheeks dry even as the flood of what happened swept over her and finally receded into the background, lurking but freeing its claws from her for the time.

Alistair’s hand grasped white-knuckled her shoulders, eyes hopelessly worried under a thin and fractured show of calm and helplessness. Fergus hovered to the side, just hopeless as to what to do other than block any passerbyers and she grit her teeth, standing with a deliberate poise, spine too stiff and chin too high. At least no one had witnessed her crumbling except for the two people on either side of her, reaching out but not knowing how to help.

She needed to be stronger, she couldn’t show this sort of weakness.

“I’m sorry.” She whispered. “I...I don’t know what came over me.” Before the time tested reassurances that it was well within her rights to fall to pieces when she could do no such thing, she had to be strong, could reach her ears she held up a hand, then extended it to Alistair in a careful show of normalcy. “Will you come with me? I do truly want to familiarize myself with...home.” What was once home.

Her voice still sounded shaky and distant to her own ears and while she tried to keep the plead from her voice she could feel her brows drawing together and up and after a moment where a dozen thoughts crossed his face, Alistair took her hand, lightly wrapping hers in his and gave a slight nod.

“Would you please tell those waiting for our arrival that we are sorry to keep them waiting, but we will be there at least this evening?”

“Of course.” Fergus fixed his eyes on Baraneth, looking like he wanted to reach out to her but not knowing how. Something had driven a wall between them, some trauma either of them had faced that they couldn’t yet surmount. “Baraneth…” he sighed, a great whoosh of air from his lungs. “It’s hard. I know it is.”

“I will see you at dinner Fergus.” she said absently, eyes wandering around the hall once more. She wanted to see the estate; see if the rooms had changed as much as she had. Some softer, younger, part of her wanted to simply show Alistair the halls she had grown up in, as if could somehow speak to her and her history. Mostly she just wanted to flee.

Though the halls had been beaten by sword and shield, tainted by the blood of the innocent and the treacherous, they bore no change except for chinks in the stone or new throw rugs, the others most likely burned. While it was comforting to know that the walls around her could remain strong after so much wrong she ached for them to show that something was no longer right in the Cousland’s Highever.

The kitchen and pantry were entirely restocked, organized in a way that Nan would have scoffed at, the servants working in the steam and wafting smell of baking bread barely sparing her a glance. The kennel was empty except for two fully grown mabari, one’s stomach swollen with pups, the other dutifully keeping guard where there once would have been half a dozen of the prided war dogs.

She wandered the halls and paths, arm linked with Alistair’s, without incident, her eyes dry and vacant until her feet set her on a path that sent a shot of residue fear through her.

Each step became more leaden until they reached a door and when she pushed it open she stared numbly inside the larder, at the spot where she had left her father. It was shadowed in the setting sun’s light but no longer soaked with scarlet, bearing no testament to that night. “Did I ever tell you how Duncan conscripted me?”

“You told me that he invoked the Rite.” Alistair’s eyes were suspicious when she looked over, a tired sort of realization trickling through his expression when he saw her tightening jaw, the way her nose curled as she drew upon the memory. The memory of Duncan to Alistair was not one she wanted to tarnish, but the man she had known was far different from the one he had; that was a fact they both didn’t dispute.

She could feel the heat rising in her cheeks, burning in her eyes and when she blinked dampness gathered on her lashes. Swiping it away with the back of her hand she pointed to the shadowed corner. “Papa was there, bleeding out from a deep cut made by a Howe’s blade.” Her hand twitched to the side, the shadows of her and her mother dancing across her vision. “Mama and I were there. I had the family sword and a shield I seized from one of our fallen soldiers, my mother only had a brittle bow and a few remaining arrows.”

She pressed her hands across her eyes again and Alistair made a small noise of dissent, urging her to stop but she shook her head. “Duncan barged through the door and I nearly put my sword through him but he was already talking about a way out, something about Howe’s bastard men overrunning the castle. Papa told him to get me and my mother out, pleaded. _Begged_. I’d never seen my father beg before.”

When she turned her eyes back to the spot where her father had lain she could see him, on his knees, keeled over in agony and yet _still_  trying to look out for him family. Her gut twisted.

“Duncan agreed to get me and Mama out but there was a catch, _oh_ there was a _catch_. Only if I joined his Grey Wardens because he needed a recruit.” Bitterness abruptly cracked, falling away to the rawness underneath. It was laughable now, knowing that he’d pulled Ruinel and Laurel into his ranks just prior to her. That he’d not needed a soul so desperately as he had claimed.

“Mama told him she wouldn’t leave, that she wasn’t going to leave Papa to die at the hands of Howe alone. So I refused Duncan’s offer. I wasn’t going to let them die, I _wasn’t_. I would have stayed and fought until the last before I would leave them for selfish survival. Papa told me to leave, of course he did, he wouldn’t see his little pup die for him.” One more time she swiped her hands across her cheeks, dragging her hand over her mouth before continuing. Alistair shook his head slowly, pain burning in his eyes.

“I refused, I refused and I _refused_ . I wouldn’t leave, I told them I would _not_ . So Duncan told me I had no choice.” Lower lip quivering, she glared hard at the wall opposite her, the wooden door where she had been pulled into the darkest night of her life. “I had no choice and with hardly any consideration he was invoking the rite. Right there I was stripped of any agency I may have had as the fighting drew closer. Papa told me it would be alright, leaning against my mother heavily with her arms around him and when I tried to stay Duncan seized me. I just remember him pulling me away, clamping a hand over my mouth to muffle me as I screamed and cried because I _didn’t want to leave_ .” She choked out a bitter laugh. “And now I’m here. Queen of Ferelden, standing next to the man I love and unable to tell the two people I want to tell most about it.” _I should have been dead with them_.  

But then what would have happened, if everything had ended on that night? Who would have led the Blight, would it have fallen to Ruinel or Laurel? Would Alistair had stepped forward into the position she left vacant? Would Ruinel have died at Fort Drakon with no ritual to keep her soul unmarred by the archdemon?

A shuddering breath shook her shoulders and she brought her hands over her face, shaking her head.

Alistair pulled her close, one hand rubbing soothing circles on her back and the other cupping the back of her head as she buried her face against his shoulder until the world around her went dark, a ragged sob finally tearing from her. The thin, fraying threads of her composure finally snapped and she allowed herself to wrap her arms around him, letting the torrent of emotions building up like gatlok inside of her free.

“I...I don’t want to be here.” she cried like a child. “Everywhere I look...I can’t unsee it.”

“I know...I know but I don’t know what to do.” Alistair tucked her closer, as if that could protect her from the memories swirling and stinging around her. “Tell me how to help.”

“I don’t know. I don’t.”

She dug her fingers into the rough material of his shirt, winding it around her fingers, her face pressed hard enough against him that the blackness of her vision went hazy. Pulled in a deep breath that felt like a hundred little daggers. It disgusted her how small her voice was. “Just..hold me for now?”  

Shelter her as everything came tumbling down. Protect her from the things she had been hiding from since the Blight had first sunk its claws into her life.

Alistair, for his part, understood.

* * *

 

The graves rested in a quiet corner of the estate’s grounds, out by the eastern wall where the sunrise shown over the stones each morning, spilling onto the ground in pools. While the path had never been well travelled when she had lived and walked in these grounds there were more signs of life. The peace still reigned it's quiet rule, but the footpaths were more worn, the weeds removed. Two mounds stood still and silent at the far wall, bathed in the last remnants of light that reached them from the setting sun. They were marked with one stone shared between the two and from here she could see the flowers decorating the area around the mounts.

“We...this was the best we could offer them.” Fergus said thickly. They deserved better. They deserved better than to be murdered by the man they thought was a friend, to have their home ransacked and disrespected and to have who-knows-what done with their bodies before Fergus had retaken Highever. She was too afraid to ask what he had found upon returning, she didn’t want to know.

She only needed the knowledge that Howe had payed for his crimes and that her family’s home was once again theirs. That this little piece of the world was now righted.

Baraneth rested her head on his shoulder, not bothering to wipe away the tears that tracked down the raw path of her cheeks. She was so Maker damned tired of crying. “I’m sorry I couldn’t save them. Mama, Papa...your wife and child. For not being able to save our home and protect it like Papa told me to do in preparation for his leave. Please, forgive me.”

“There’s nothing to forgive, Baraneth. You never should have had to fight an army of traitors so young. Father wouldn’t have wanted you to die alongside them, our Cousland sense of duty be forgotten.”

“I just...I wish this had never happened.” She whispered. If this had never happened then she would not have her family torn apart. Their home and normal life wouldn’t be shattered, she would still be bickering with her mother day in and day out only to hold each other dear by the end of the day once more and she would still be bothering her father’s militia to teach her more fighting techniques and pretending she was a warrior of old. Yet had that not happened then she never would have become a Grey Warden never would have met Ruinel, Laurel or Alistair. She never would have found her dearest friends or her greatest love. She wanted the past back and yet she didn’t want to give up her future. “I..don’t know anymore.”

“I understand completely.” Fergus sighed heavily, looking to the sky. Baraneth tentatively stepped forward, kneeling in front of the marking stone and ran her hands over the carefully engraved epitaph. She thought that perhaps she would be wracked by the same suffocation as the main hall, expected the wave of pain to hit her as it did in the storeroom. But nothing came, she felt still and calm, at ease.

“Fergus,” she looked over her shoulder. “I hope it does not hurt you that I cannot call this home any longer.”

Though he had been keeping several length away from the markers, as though stepping near would make them real, he stepped forward now and placed a warm hand on her shoulder, looking down at her with a sad sort of fondness. “I would never expect you to return here, after what you saw. It would be just as bad as asking you to live in Fort Drakon.” His other hand scrubbed through his beard, grown thicker and better groomed since she had seen him in Denerim. “Though I will miss having your enthusiasm for the politics around, I can no longer shunt it down to you.”

She snorted halfheartedly. “I’ve taken on far more politics than I may be able to handle. Perhaps I should have stayed teyrna.”

“Oh please, you would’ve outgrown the position within the year.” Fergus scoffed, rubbing his hand across her shoulder. “I think you’re going to do fine, Bara, we both will.”

“We don’t have much a choice.” she said under her breath and while she heard him sigh softly, he let it be. They were going to survive, Fergus was going to pick Highever up, make it a pillar to the greater Ferelden. And she...she was going to take part of the weight of their nation on her shoulders.

It was their duty.

 

* * *

 

Their last day in Highever bloomed in bittersweetness, overcast with dull grey clouds and a breeze that flew the Cousland laurel banner’s high.

“People of Highever! We cannot begin to describe how much it means to us that you have appeared today to listen.” Alistair clasped his hands behind him and Baraneth saw that it was so he could rub a spot on his wrist instead of fidgeting.

He was nervous, even now, but his voice was steadier than it ever had been and the easy nature in which he spoke was familiar to her. Yet still, he spoke and the people did not turn their whole attention to him, they were stilled fixed on her. It was a sea of eyes rapt, gathered in the square in front of the Cousland castle. They were not listening, not truly, they didn’t care about _Ferelden_. They cared about their little slice of the nation. She tapped Alistair on the shoulder, stepping forward and he took her silent cue. Highever had been through too much to fix its attention on the greater nation.

“Ferelden has survived what seemed like the impossible,” She began and she could feel the shift towards her, people’s heads perking up. She was theirs today, wearing their-- _her_ \--blue and laurels in the armor plate draping her upper body. “But Highever has survived what seemed like the end. We lost so much to the Howe’s and yet we have survived. _You_ survived an occupation that would have cowed others. And while Ferelden will prosper and we will fight for you and your countrymen that is not what you need to hear right now. What you want to hear is that the Couslands stand strong once more, that all of your fight against the Howe’s was not in vain because we have _returned_. You mourn for Elenor and Bryce, you mourned for my brother and I; but we have returned--”

Their attention was riveted on her, and many of them cheered loudly, drowning her out.

“You may not want to listen to the goals of Ferelden today, maybe you just want to selfishly hear about how we will help your home, _my_ home. And let me start by returning a heirloom that has forever protected this teyrn, one that had protected me through the dark night at Castle Cousland and one that continued to protect me through the Blight. It’s time that it return home so that it can once more protect its people.” her hand fell to rest on the sword, hilted in a scabbard corded around her waist. She motioned to her brother and he stepped forward, posture stiff and formal.

She unsheathed the sword, a gleaming with a long, elegantly balanced blade and a  hilt engraved with the laurels of their family’s crest; the Cousland’s family sword was a beautiful creature. “Fergus, mother gave this to me that night in the hopes that it would protect me. It’s done it’s job and beyond; it’s time it returns back to you.”

“Baraneth, you need not return it.” Fergus said quietly, holding up his hands as if to ward off a blow. His eyes were glistening. “It belongs to you as much as it does to me.”

She turned her back on the crowd, closing the bubble of the world so that it was just around her and her brother. “It has stood here since the beginning of our line, to here it should return. I took in in desperation, it should not remain with me through desperation. It’s rightful place is here.”

“I have Highever, you don’t have anything from here, if mother gave you that sword…” It struck her now that Fergus was not looking after the significance of the sword, he was trying to keep her from losing the part of herself that was rooted in Highever. She walked forward pressing the sword into his hands purposefully.

“I have my memories from here, our family heirloom will be nothing more than a trophy hanging in the royal palace. _Take_ it. Please.”

To have this sword in her possession now, when she was ascending to a place where her fighting would be minimal and her identity of a Cousland would be diminished was incomprehensible, it belonged here, with her brother far more than it belonged with her.

“It’s almost like when we were children, and we’d take turns with our toy swords.” She murmured fondly.

At that Fergus laughed under his breath, finally taking the sword from her, balancing it  reverently in his hands. “You always did hog the best swords and shields.” He shifted the sword to one hand so that he could wrap her in a one-armed hug, chin on top of her head as he wondered aloud. “When did you get so damn grown up and wise, sister?”

Baraneth squeezed her brother tight, any reply she might have been able to choke out drowned out by the raucous cheering of the crowd that had been respectfully and curiously silent throughout the exchange.

For her it was as though a great weight she hadn’t even recognized had been listed from her shoulders.

For them this wasn’t a show of monarchical power; it was instead the reunification of a family that was as beloved to them as it was to blood kin.  It was a small step forward, but a step nonetheless.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading! Comments and kudos always appreciated <3 With the tour finally over it's time we'll be getting into some fun stuff...buckle up kids, it only goes up (down? who knows) from here~


	7. Chapter Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Baraneth and Alistair return to Denerim after the six months of the tour to a city teeming with new life. They begin to settle back into what is now their home and prepare for their wedding as well as re-acclimate to the city they left behind.

_9:32 Dragon_

Denerim was bustling and frothing with life when they rode back through its gates after the fifteen days travel from Highever. In the months that had passed on their travels the city that had been burnt to a husk of its former self was teeming, shining with new construction and new materials. Buildings that had been worn down and sagging stood tall again, their wood no longer chipping and splintering. The black sheen of ash was scrubbed from the streets and walls and the gates that had been hanging on their hinges were restored and shining.

Sunlight danced across the cobblestones, falling through the leaves of the trees with the warmth of summer in the air. Children ran back and forth across the streets, chasing toys, with their hounds chasing them and mothers’ shouts echoed that they were going to get themselves killed if they weren’t careful.

Their arrival went unnoticed at first, the bustle of day to day life overcoming their return date until the clipping of their horses hooves on the cobblestones caught many ears and just as quickly there were lines on either side of the streets, waving and cheering as they passed.

The royal palace stood fresh and grand as they approached, leaving their people to return to their lives and for them to start their’s anew, eyeing the heart of Denerim with awe once again.

“It feels like a new city.” Baraneth gasped, twirling around to look all around her with they dismounted their horses. “It was hardly this alive during the Blight.”

“It’s recovering.” Alistair was smiling when she looked over at him, face bright as the sun as he let his eyes drift around Denerim and the palace gates around them. While both of them had known that things would be different when they returned, reconciling this new Denerim with the one they had fought through at the end of the Blight was far beyond their expectations. “We’re getting back on our feet!”

Eamon was standing at the gate, waving them over incessantly until she finally stepped away from her awe at the state of the city and scampered across the grounds to him. “Arl Eamon, what may we--”  
“Your majesties!” He greeted warmly, cutting her off, taking her by the arm and shepherding Alistair with a hand at the small of his back, leading them into the palace. Though he marched onwards, herding them in front, Baraneth craned her neck to look around at the rooms that had been decrepit when they took their leave. The wooden floors gleamed free of their rusty stains, the banners with roaring lions on their shield not yet faded or creased with age. Any sign of Loghain’s tyranny or Howe’s brutality scrubbed clean. It was their fresh start and Baraneth all but skipped as she walked. Alongside her Alistair too looked around, eyes as wide as saucers.

“As much as I imagine travel has been taxing, I hope you’ll forgive me for taking the liberty to continue preparing for your ascension to the throne by calling the members of the Bannorn here to meet, they’ll be here in a few days time.”

“Did we not just meet them?” Alistair inquired, looking around as though he had somehow imagined the last several months of travel and diplomacy like some manner of fevered dream. Baraneth was thinking quite the same, wondering if her sore rear from the days of saddle time and the dirt underneath her fingernails was just the the product of a wild night of sleepwalking.

“You’ve only met them separately, what we are doing is calling a meeting of _all_ members. You’ll find that they act rather differently as a whole than on their own, in their own homes.”

The two shared an incredulous  look as Eamon continued, Baraneth’s betraying her sudden urge to speak back against Eamon’s meddling before Alistair gave the slightest shake of his head. They’d not truly _appointed_ Eamon as any director of their affairs, rather he’d wormed himself in and the creature comforts of familiarity to Alistair had kept him on their staff. Though Baraneth had not quite expected him to take his duties so quickly into his own hands.

“Of course some are quite unable to make it, with their lands still recovering, and the Hero of Ferelden sent news that she would not be able to make it, even as she’s standing as the representative for Amaranthine.”

While Eamon’s displeasure was rife through every word Baraneth waved her hand against it, not caring about technicalities when he implied that something was wrong with her dearest friend. Amaranthine had been thriving when they had last been there, only a few weeks previous. “Wait, what do you mean Ruinel won’t be able to travel? Is everything alright?”

“She did not elaborate on what troubles she was facing, only that she would not be able to leave her charges and that she would send word when she figures out what is happening in enough detail for her to deem it worthwhile.”

Eamon shoved open the doors to a large chamber room, revealing a sweeping room with multiple hearths and tapresties lining the walls depicting Andrastian scenes and the crests of the bannorns and arlings. Upholstered chairs lined a long wooden table covered across the middle with a thin red cloth adorned with gold. There was no one within except for a few of the staff scurrying in and out.

“And, as there is such a disparity in the recovery of the land I have been informed that your wedding has been pushed back for an indefinite amount of time, but that is not your top concern currently.”

Baraneth didn’t particularly care when their wedding happened, eventually they would be recognized as an official couple and it was a formality at most, and it being pushed off didn’t bring any tears to her eyes. “The wedding can wait, but is recovery stalling? Should we be concerned.”

“It is the job of the Banns and Arls to supervise the recovery of their lands and villages, not the job of the monarchs. Your job is to oversee the nation as a whole and our foreign and domestic affairs. I know that you care deeply about your people, but you cannot help everyone individually.”

“Yes, _but_ ,” Baraneth slid in front of Eamon, very close to planting her hands on her hips. Faltering recovery surely couldn’t mean everything was going smoothly; many places had been blossoming back to life when they had seen them on the tour. If they were already failing then it seemed prudent that they _act_ instead of sitting here in their little haven. “If perhaps we can help then our nation will get back on its feet sooner, yes?”

Eamon met her look cooly, bushy grey eyebrows lowering over his clouding eyes. “Forgive me, majesty, but your duty right now is to go through the due process of becoming a monarch--and that means recognizing you and your king in front of Andraste. _That_ is how you will help your people, by becoming figureheads.”

“ _Figureheads_?” Baraneth squaked; Alistair indignantly adding; “I’d certainly hope we’re more than that!”

“You will still _act_ on behalf of your people. But your image must be known to all as a sign of unity first.” For a single moment Eamon seemed truly exasperated with them and some vindictive part in the back of Baraneth’s mind hissed that good, he deserved a taste of what he gave. But the moment passed and his expression schooled back into one of patronizing humor.

“The wedding planning will start in tandem with the gathering of the Bannorn, I suggest you two take your free day and cherish it; you won’t have many from here on out.”

It was a dismissal if she’d ever heard one and drawing on some deep well of patience she didn’t know she had she inclined her chin in the smallest of nods. “We will take your suggestion into consideration.” she said as diplomatically as she could muster. Some battles aren't worth fighting...and battling with Eamon so soon after their return to Denerim was not the way they should start their tenure here.

Still ruffled from the commentary on becoming a figurehead, Alistairs’ eyes were narrowed when she glanced up at him. With his brows drawn, lips puckered and cheeks puffed, he looking quite adorably disgruntled and it eased some of her own irritation.

Sliding her arm around his waist, she leaned her head against his shoulder and he looked down at her, the line between his brows easing. “Can we go back out into the city?” she suggested; part of her longed for the free air again, just to simply be _away_. Another part of her wanted to dispel the ghosts and shadows that still lurked around the city for her.

Alistair’s hand settled over her own, relief washing over his face. “Of course.” he cleared his throat, nodding to Eamon. “If you should have need of us...well, just look for the group of people that will surely find us.”

“Of course. Do try to stay out of trouble.” Eamon gave them a _shoo-_ ing motion, ushering them out the door. “Give the castle some peace!”

“ _Gladly_ ,” Baraneth murmured under her breath, earning a choked down laugh from Alistair and a nudge against her shoulder. Once they broke from the doors and into the open spread of the hallway, Alistair seized her hand, pulling her along.

She seized her skirts, pulling them up with one hand when they threatened to tangle about her feet, her laughter tearing down the hall. There was no one in their path, the staff was still lacking and life had not yet rooted itself fully here yet, as they sprinted down the hall, their combined weight against the double oak doors enough to throw them open.

Enough force that they stumbled out, nearly tumbling down the main steps. Alistair caught Baraneth around the waist, her arms clamping over his as they staggered about to regain their balance, all laughter until they were breathless and smiles.

Baraneth pushed a few strands of hair back from her face, words disrupted again and again by peals of laughter. “‘Don’t cause any trouble’ Eamon said and already we’ve just about died on the stairs!”

“Almost died may be a little dramatic.” he took her hand in his again, entwining their fingers. “ _But_ we’re free...and I believe someone wanted to see Denerim once again.”

It wasn’t a long walk through the palace district, lined with the stables and stabling facilities and the mediocre homes of the various Denerim nobility. Activity was sparse in the neighborhood; most of the nobility were either in other parts of town or on daily hunts and other such activities to spend their daylight doing. It made for a quiet walk, without watchful eyes or intrigued whispers.

By the time they reached the river the roads had faded from cobblestone to packed dirt, dusting the faded rose of Baraneth’s skirts brown, and life was starting to come back around them. Carts, smaller ones tugged along by men and women and larger ones drawn by horse and cattle alike, rattled along across the uneven ground towards the rising marketplace square; mothers hung clothes on lines outside of windows and called for their unruly children from the rickety homes that still stood.

“This can hardly be the same square that we left behind!” Baraneth gasped in absolute delight as they broke into the main square, the stones smoothed enough underfoot that the transition from dirt was hardly noticeable. Around them the rabble of the market rose, voices calling for the raggedy dogs that roamed about, barking, merchants calling their wares and the rattling of pots, the jangling of harness. Delectable smells wafted from various carts selling food and all around the square was a myriad of people--from swashbuckling seafarers to those drifting about in finery.

It was a far cry from the subdued and wary market she had first seen under the shadow of Loghain. Then, people had been shadow-eyed and shifty, cautious in what they sold and what information they shared.

“It’s like there’s life back here!” she spun about, taking in everything from the newly boarded walls of the homes that boxed in the square to the new, brightly patterned fabric that hung on the tent poles as the centerpiece of the market and the lanterns that swayed above them.

“Denerim certainly has been busy in our absence…” Alistair murmured in wonder, basking in the new liviness just as she was. But she had already darted away, quite like a kid let loose in a toy shop, just to skip about the carts and sink into the ambience.

No one had yet seemed to pay them any mind; the occasional eye turned their way, looked once more for good measure, just to bustle along. With the waning hours of the day they had better things to do than gawk.

“Ah, is the young woman interested in our wares?” Baraneth startled as she was called over, wandering closer to a ragtag group. Her eyes drifted over their cart, heaped high with assorted musical goods. The cart itself was worn, its wood weathered by wind and rain. Hand painted lettering read along the side: _Anja’s Antivan Goods_. “Does she play?”

Baraneth shook her head, eyes wide and curious as they wandered to the woman, presumably the Anja spoken of on the cart,  sitting on the front of her wagon, a stringed instrument resting across her lap and a bow swinging idly from her fingers. “I do not...it’s never been something that I’ve been able to master.”

The woman’s laugh was tinkling, like the fluttering of a windchime. “You do not _master_ the music, my dear.” Her dark eyes darted over her and Alistair, widening slightly. The baubles wound into the braid draped around her shoulders jangled as she drew back. “You are the new king and queen of this nation, are you not? You are not looking to hear us peddle our wares.”

A jolt went through her and her hands shot out, as if to keep the cart and their owners from disappearing. “No! Not to buy perhaps, but I would love to hear your music.” She fumbled about the corded belt at her waist. “I even have coin...I wouldn’t wish to inconvenience you or steal your time.”

The woman unfolded her legs, letting herself drop gracefully to the ground. With a start, Baraneth realized she was almost a head shorter than this woman. “Royalty or no, I am always willing to share music.”

Dusk was falling, but it didn’t seem to bother Anja. She rummaged around in the back of her cart until she pulled out a small tinder box, lighting a few hanging lanterns from her cart until a soft golden light danced around them. All around the marketplace, storefronts and merchants were doing the same until the square itself seemed to shine. Denerim wasn’t shutting its eyes early tonight, it seemed.

Anja picked up her instrument and the others from her cart did the same and as if no one else existed they began to play, Anja swaying about with her instrument as though it was a dance partner.  Baraneth clapping her hands together, delighted by the jaunty music and when Alistair touched her shoulder, extending a hand as if to dance, she grabbed hold of it eagerly and let him pull her to him.

The music swirling around them, Baraneth didn’t care that people were craning their necks to see the commotion at their end of the market as she and Alistair danced alongside Anja and her workers--the woman’s tinkling laugh twining with her music.

From the small lawn of a nearby home--it’s exterior still tarnished with ash but starting to shine underneath cleared debris-- a curious child wandered closer. Large eyes round with wonder, the child hesitated near the edge of Anja’s cart. Baraneth slipped away from Alistair, skipping over to the child and extending her hand with a smile to the mother. Upon seeing her face, the mother’s eyes alit with amazement and she nodded almost in bewilderment, giving her child the smallest nudge forward. After a pause the child beamed back at her, frizzy curls bouncing as she seized both of Baraneth’s hands in her own and skipped them in a small circle. Baraneth laughed, letting the little girl swing her around in a carefree disregard, and glanced over her shoulder to Alistair. The other children had tackled their king--one sitting high on his shoulders and laughing in manic glee, while the other two had seized his hands and were pulling him about as well. In a state of what seemed like awed bewilderment still, the mother rocked a bundled baby in her arms to the music.

Spontaneous, just a tad bit ridiculous--perhaps the lack of conduct would have sent their advisors fainting, but their advisors weren’t here to see.  The little girl that sequestered Baraneth faltered, clinging to her skirts in fits of breathless giggles. She swayed back and forth, dissolving into further peals of laughter when Baraneth scooped her into her arms. “I think that’s quite enough dancing for one little princess tonight.” she said faux sternly, offering a secretive smile when the girl’s eyes went pleading. “Princesses need to save energy for _other_ dancing.”

“What about _queens_?” the little girl asked. “Do queens save dances?”

“Always; especially for the _best_ of little princesses.” Baraneth smiled as she shooed the girl back into the skirts of her mother. The mother offered a sheepish grin to her-- _tsk_ -ing at her son as he huffed as giving up his perch on his king’s shoulders. Alistair’s cheeks were flushed pink from the children tugging him about the square, his hair mussed up from a child’s hands. It sent a flare of warmth through her chest.

The music hadn’t stopped in their pause, she realized, Anja was still playing merrily like some higher spirit drove her and others in the square were starting to catch wind. Many were gathering around simply to lend their ear to the music, some going as far as to toss coppers or silver pieces into a small carved bowl one of the musicians had nudged out into the open with his foot. A few children grabbed each other and were swinging about in circles, swaying with interlocked hands, while those closer to Baraneth and Alistair’s age took tentative hold of each other to leap and spin to the music.

Spontaneous indeed, it sent a thrill of excitement zinging through the air. “Wonderful!” Baraneth whispered, taking up Alistair’s hands within her own with a gleeful laugh. “Dance with me again!”

There wasn’t even a beat of hesitation before he was turning that smile bright enough to outshine the sun on her, looping their arms together at the elbows and pulling her into the little crowd that had formed, into the clapping and the spinning of skirts and into the festivity.

They fumbled over each other in their enthusiasm, tripping over each other’s boots. Baraneth fell against Alistair’s shoulder as he accidentally stomped on the tail end of her skirt, and she very nearly sent them both sprawling upon accidentally hooking her foot behind his ankle. By the end of the song they were simply skipping around, facing each other hand in hand without any of the fancy footwork, giggling like children with their faces flushed pink from exertion.

Baraneth rested her face against Alistair’s shoulder, fighting to catch her breath amidst the euphoria of the dance, and his fingers combed her wild hair back from her face. “Best decision _ever_.” she giggled before realizing that while the music had faded off, giddy laughter and clapping had not.

“Is that…?”

“I do believe it is..?”

Whispers flew around them like wildfire, finally simmering into a fine ash when they turned around, Baraneth offering an enthusiastic wave soon taken up with a quieter energy by Alistair. Many waved back, some with just as much enthusiasm while others were far more sheepish.

Pulling out a satchel of coin, Baraneth picked her way over to Anja’s cart, crouching to right the knocked about bowl of tips. Anja’s eyes seemed to blow to the size of dinner platters when she gently set the small cloth pouch in with the remaining coin, picking it up as she stood and offered it. “Thank you for the music, and the best of luck to your music and wares. Do feel free to return to this market and spread more joy whenever it pleases you.”

“I…” Anja cradled the bowl in the crook of her arm like a precious bundle. “We certainly will keep that in mind on our travels...thank you my lady, for entertaining me.”  

Night fell in inky tones and the soft orange glow of lanterns as she and Alistair put the merriment in the square to their backs, making the walk back to the estate in the darkness. When they finally slipped back into the estate Alistair closed the heavy door behind them exaggerated gentleness, as if afraid to awaken the household and together they walked down the hallway, his arm sliding around her waist.

Still caught in their private bubble they jumped when  almost nervously, one of the staff fell into step alongside them. From the teeth-marked leather she wore it looked as though she’d come from the kennels.

“Is it true that there was...a celebration at the square?”

Sharing an amused glance, they nodded. “I guess you could say it was a celebration.” Baraneth chuckled.

“More a spontaneous decision to well...enjoy ourselves.” Alistair ducked his head, running a hand over the back of his neck like he expected a reprimand. Instead the kennelmaster sighed, tugging off her gloves and tucking them into the thick belt that she wore.

“I wish I had been there to see it...it’s been _all_ the talk to the streets and _all_ the talk in the staff corridors. You should’ve seen the Arl’s face when he heard about it.” she tossed her head back and laughed, dropping her voice low and scowling. “‘ _I told them to avoid trouble, not draw it! Asking to cause a scene--_ ”

Cutting off suddenly, she cleared her throat. “I’m sorry, that was out of line.”

“No, no,” Alistair tried very hard to keep a straight face. “I simply think Eamon’s voice is a bit more gruff and grumbling.”

The kennel master smiled a toothy smile, breaking away from walking with them and skirting off to a side passageway. “Well...as it is, whatever you did...it made people happy. Good night, you’re majesties.”

* * *

 

Gilded on the edged and cleaned to gleaming perfection, the mirror in front of Baraneth was almost _too_ clear. Yes, she had needed to preen and look at herself on tour and even during the Blight--she had at least tried to maintain some level of grimelessness, especially when walking into towns and hubs such as Orzammar and Denerim and against the threat of infection and the dangers from darkspawn blood--but that had all been stolen in quick glances in passing mirrors or in the distorted metal of her shield. Looking at herself so directly was disconcerting after so long and without meaning to she nitpicked. There couldn’t be any flaws that could picked out from her, not under the eyes of those more experienced than her that she would soon face.

Underneath the square neckline of her dress--a deep red wool-velvet set with a gold brocade down the center, as if anyone were to forget they were to be Theirins if they weren’t wearing the heraldry colors--she could see the remnants of scars not covered by her hair and the darker lines where she had bronzed under the sun in differently cut dresses.

Along her hairline the remnants of baby hairs still fell from the rest, carefully pulled back and plaited, capped by a caul gently sparkling with gold adornments as well. Anything could be picked apart by the Bannorn; any hair out of place could be pulled as a reason that they were not yet ready to exude the perfection that monarchs should.

Maker’s balls she would much rather go out into the Bannorn in full plate armor, at least then she would be covered and protected from their dagger sharp stares and judgement as strict as any full court’s.

“Bara,” Alistair’s sheepish knock on her door gave her a welcome respite from her own head and she frowned at the mirror one last time; tossing a spare sheet over it before flying to the door. She pulled it open, peeking around the edge and pursing her lips against the threat of laughter that immediately surfaced.

“Alistair...may I ask what happened?”

“I…” he drew out the word several beats, tugging unhappily at his horribly twisted surcoat. “The mirror in our...my? chambers is still not replaced and I tried to do it up myself but well..now I cannot get it _undone_.”

He looked frazzled already--the nerves of the Bannorn shadowed over his eyes quite clearly and when he lifted his hands to tug at the fastenings along the throat they were unsteady with a nervous energy--and though sympathy flared within her she let one little tease slide.

“Does the king of Ferelden not have people clamoring to help him with his tunic?”

“Hah, quite the jester you are.” he snipped back. “I’ll have you know there would be _plenty_ dying for me to ask them. You just take precedent.”

She made a face at him for that, waving him in and closing the door behind him with a snap. It wouldn’t do to have those who wandered the halls starting one of their gossip mills. “It’s a miracle you’ve made it this far, my dear.” she teased gently, deftly undoing the fastenings and redoing them, focusing very hard on ignoring the sprinkling of freckles she could _just_ see when the fabric fell apart. Maker, it was like she was a desperate young damsel; focus.

The dark linen was soft under her fingers as she smoothed her hands over his shoulders, smoothing away wrinkles before tugging his surcoat of a darker fabric back into place. “Better?”

“Better,” his expression was too innocent and she had barely narrowed her eyes in suspicion before he ducked down to kiss her quickly. “Thanks, love.”

“You just wanted an excuse to come here!” she accused, none the less tugging him back down to her level. He very well was capable of fixing it on his own, that was for certain.“You sneak.”

“I was honestly stuck.” he protected, eyes dancing as she pulled back from their kiss. “But I also needed to speak with you.”

She paused before gently sliding back onto the bench at the foot of her bed, tossing her skirts aside and tugging up the laces of her boots and gesturing for him to speak. While she had no doubt being here was a primary goal, Alistair wasn’t liberal with his serious moments of _needing_ to talk.  “What’s on your mind?”

“I just…” Alistair hummed, then huffed, and grumbled until finally settling on a shrug, tugging his fingers through his hair. “What are we walking into?”

Placing her foot back on the ground, Baraneth braced her elbows on her knees. “Nothing with the stakes set high...it’s simply a collection of the Bannorn. Probably more an official headcount than anything.” When she stood, Alistair’s eyes followed her, drifting closed with a deep breath as she stood on her toes and straightened hair that he had ruffled. “Don’t think too much about it; there’s no need to worry.”

“No need to worry…” Alistair repeated. “Okay, alright, nothing to worry about.”

He didn’t seem to believe the words that he repeated, but it would need to do for now. She could only hope that once he was enveloped in the situation that he would begin to settle. That they would both begin to settle, if she paused long enough to turn an analytical eye upon herself.

All those set to arrive had stepped through the Denerim gates and settled in by the time Baraneth and Alistair approached the doors to the chamber hall and pushed them open; the voices that had been muffled behind it rose to full volume as the barrier caved.

The voices hushed, eyes turning onto Baraneth and Alistair. They were the very same people they had faced scrutiny from the Landsmeet that were sprawled across chairs now in furs and leathers. “It is good to see you return safely from your travels.”

“And it is good to see that you’ve made it here safely. How are your lands recovering?” Baraneth asked, pulling out a chair and settling into it, mind racing as she tried to organize any thoughts she could that could be used in a meeting of their court. For Eamon to organize this without giving them the opportunity to talk it through or plan was either a vast oversight or a very cruel trick; she could see from the slightly panicked look Alistair had that he was not any better off now than he would be thrown into a darkspawn horde. Perhaps, in fact, he might have preferred and fared better with the hoarde. She at least had her training as a future teyrna to bolster her resolve, she highly doubted that the Templars had taught Alistair anything on the art of composing yourself when your mind was blank as a fresh sheet of vellum.

“The Southern Bannorn fairs well, we were more affected by the outbreak at the Calenhad Circle than we were by the Blight proper. Your work at the Circle was most admirable and we are indebted to you.” Baraneth inclined her head slightly to the side, brows rising briefly as Bann Ceorlic was the first to raise his voice. The man had been a staunch supporter of Loghain at the end of the Blight; even during their brief stay he had been less than accommodating and even less than cordial. From the reports that had been slowly trickling in the area was one of the fastest recovering and rebuilding; it seemed a change of attitude was also well in order at least for the moment.

“The Western Hills is starting to fare better; our spring crops are starting to finally take.” Wulff knotted his fingers together, resting them on the table. “There is still much to be done but...it no longer feels like we’re teetering on the edge of destruction.”

A murmuring of agreement passed over the remainder of the Bannorn in a soft wave. “That is good to hear; keep up the efforts and it will be like the Blight never happened.” she smiled and like a rickety wagon over bumpy ground the meeting began to stumble forward.

It was idle talk; updates on crops and remaining darkspawn bands; spring crops were beginning to take root in all but the most Blighted of land and Grey Wardens from Vigil’s Keep had driven the remaining darkspawn from Gwaren and collapsed the tunnels that had broken the coastline. No staggering news but, in lieu of all that had happened perhaps no news was good news.

However, even as the Bannorn began to relax their stiff-backed, wooden-toned demeanors, Alistair still remained on edge. From the corner of her eye, Baraneth could see the tension in every line of his profile and his comments were far and few between, curt when they appeared.

It was enough of a difference that even those around them were beginning to clue in.

“Forgive us, we’re going to step out for a moment.” Baraneth smiled, closed lipped and terse, brushing her hand across Alistair’s shoulder as she stood and hissed under her breath, “With me.”

He stood woodenly, following her out the door and letting his back thump against the wall as she closed the door behind them. When she turned on him he had his eyes closed, breathing in a shaky breath. “...Alistair?”

“I don’t know what I’m doing.” He whispered furiously. “They’re all in there expecting something from us and I don’t know what we’re even supposed to be _doing_ . What _I’m_ supposed to be doing!”

“Breathe for a moment,” Baraneth ordered, forcing her voice to remain gentle. “We don’t need to know what we’re doing. They know as well as us that this meeting was sprung on us, that we’re both new to this.”

He shook his head, rocking it back and forth against the wood with the intensity that made Baraneth wonder if he was trying to fade into the wall itself. “But they’re judging us, they have expectations and we aren’t going to be able to meet them. It’s all well and fine when we were out on the road, those people I could talk to, _here_ though, these people have far more experience than we do. They’ll think we’re incompetent.”

 _She_ had some experience. A sharp bite of frustration chewed through Baraneth, though she immediately quashed it. The fear of disappointing their elder nobles was a very real one and she forced through her mind again and again that Alistair was new to this game before she dared to speak.

Meeting and speaking with their future subjects was one thing, that was human to human interaction. Dealing with their Bannorn was a whole other, toothy beast. The constant running they’d been doing since the end of the Blight just to fulfill ceremony and purpose was taking its toll on them both. They’d barely had a moment to breath, to rest, since the end of the Blight truly.

“They won’t think us incompetent. And if they do, they hold no sway over us; we haven’t even been coronated yet. Use today as a time to get to know them.”

Alistair took in a deep breath and Baraneth rested her hand on his arm, glancing over her shoulder at the closed door. None of the banns had seemed all that concerned about speaking on their views for Ferelden, they were all still reeling with the list of things they needed to get their own territories running once more. They weren’t here today to pass their judgement on their new monarchs or challenge them. The only one that had had her eyes on them the whole time was Anora and even then it hadn’t been filled with judgement, only quiet observation.

“Good, just relax. I’m with you. No one expects you to know how to rule in a day. Or even a few months of traveling. You will learn.”

He nodded along with her words, pinching the bridge of his nose with his fingers. ‘Right, simple as just joking with them. Win them over with bad puns and knock knock jokes.” A breathy laugh filled the space between them, but the tension eased slightly from his shoulders. Baraneth’s lips quirked up and she rubbed her hand up and down his arm.

“There is one thing though that I believe we should address today, and that is offering Anora the bannship of Gwaren once more.”  

“You’re still adamant about that?”

Baraneth nodded, eyes fixed on the door as if willing herself to see through it. “It was her father’s land, and she’s yet to give us a reason to distrust her since the Landsmeet. She’s been here since we left, just as we asked. I think she’ll be a valuable asset and besides, I’d rather her in our court than off of it.” She cut her eyes over to him. “If that is agreeable with you.”

“I trust your judgement more than I trust my own, I’ll follow you.”  

“Then we’re going to go back in there, and we’re going to act like we know what we’re doing.” she smiled to offset the potential bite of her words. “We’re going to figure it out, trust me.”

“I do.” Alistair sighed, scrubbing a hand through his hair and yanking at it before Baraneth pushed open the door once more. If any of the nobles were disrupted by their absence they didn’t show it, many of them were talking to those around them, a few idly tapping the table and staring at nothing at all.

“Apologies for the wait, my lords and ladies.” Baraneth said with the sort of tight-lipped smile withheld for only the most tedious occasions. She slipped back into her seat, templing her hands together on the table. “But we do have something that we must discuss. An idea that has been growing since the end of the Blight.” The attention of the nobles shifted back to her, the tails of their conversations flitting into quiet. Baraneth locked eyes with Anora across the table. “Anora, you remember the offer I made to you, after the Landsmeet?”

“Quite well.” While Anora’s voice was clipped and professional it wasn’t frigid and the queen’s shoulders eased; she hadn’t wanted her assumption of Anora’s feelings towards her and Alistair’s position to be wrong. If she were then it would have grave consequences. “You told me you would do all within your power to restore my father’s lands to me.”

“As I did.” Baraneth ceded. “I would like to pose to the Landsmeet that Anora Mac Tir be granted her father’s teyrn of Gwaren back. Fallen into disrepair as it is after the Blight it will need a capable hand to oversee its rebuilding. And I see no need to waste a politically abled mind. Are there any objections to this motion?”

Scarce muttering broke out among the assembled until a collective sigh seemed to break with the audible answer: “There are no objections, my lady.”

“Good. Now, I believe there will be two more added to your ranks in due time. As you know Amaranthine has been granted to the Grey Wardens in part through Vigil’s Keep; as such the Warden Commander will be standing in our court when she is able alongside Arlessa Esmerelle, who isn’t present today. You may also recall that there has been talk of giving Denerim’s alienage sovereignty, as is their right. I believe it is in our best interest to ratify that thought.”

“Absolutely not!” Baraneth raised a brow when one of the noblemen, Bann Gell Lendon of Edgehall, threw his chair back, the legs shrieking across the stone floor as he stood. “The Bannorn has always stood as it is, you cannot simply add in new lands and claim sovereignty whenever you wish!” His eyes cut to Alistair, narrowing furiously and Baraneth noted the heraldry on his tunic; he had been one of the men to oppose them at the Landsmeet and pledge loyalty to Loghain. “Especially not under a _false king_.”

Not this again; thoughts of the unpleasant sneers that Lendon had sent their way across the table in Edgehall crossed her mind. She doubted he would be as amenable to reason as the common man she had stood with on the open road.

“My lord.” Her voice snapped across his brewing tirade like a whip. “Sit down. Save your accusations and demands for our first Court meeting after the coronation. Today we are simply talking and sharing ideas.”

“I will _not_.  You are fanatical heretics that took the throne through deceit and manipulation. I heard what you told one of my people, _lies_!”  He slammed his hands down on the table and while some of the bannorn flinched--even Alistair shifted back from the table, eyes wide with a look that much resembled the look of someone caught toe to toe with a rabid bear--Baraneth simply raised her chin.   
“Then leave.” she waved a hand towards the door. “You will have your beliefs conveyed by regular correspondence but your arling will remain unrepresented until you choose to return or elect someone to come in your stead. Your ‘people’ were willing to observe us with reason, you do not get a pass on that.”

In the bloated silence that followed the corner of her mind snickered at the fact that she effectively just put a full grown man in timeout. The entire concept was so ridiculous that she had to press down a nervous laugh that built within her chest. It felt as though all eyes were on them--wavering with some energy that she wasn’t sure fell to the positive or negative. There could have been a magnifying glass over her, directing all heat towards her and the same discomfort would have burned.

In a flurry of huffs and rustling of fabrics the pause broke and  he was gone; the door slammed closed behind him. The first of their opposers revealed and dealt with; despite the fact that it should do the opposite it sent a small touch of satisfaction through her. “Anyone else?”

The Bannorn looked back at her with wide eyes, Alistair alongside them, but offered no other pressure. Perhaps they thought of _her_ as the rabid bear--unyielding and vicious in her intent. If this unofficial meeting required her to be unyielding to purge the toxins in their group then so be it. “Very well. Shall we continue?”

“Of course. But I don’t see how we are going to achieve much, this meeting seems rather moot. We cannot make anything official.”

“I would disagree. I think we’ve been quite productive; Gwaren may not have a teyrna, the Alienage may have been granted representation as soon as we can legally speak with Shianni and we’ve sent away the first of the dissenters unwilling to talk peacefully.” Baraneth shrugged, resting her hands primly in her lap. “All of this we’ve accomplished and we’ve barely broken a sweat.”

Alistair gave a small, choked cough that might have been a laugh or perhaps a noise of surprise. But then he placed his hands on the table, fidgeted for a second before speaking. His words started careful and slow, as though placing each delicately within the sentence, his eyes darting between Baraneth, the table, and the Bannorn sitting before them. “Unless any productivity is not shut down...we should at least begin to consider matters with the alienage, even if anything cannot be signed into fact currently. Putting it off will do no good.”

“I do not see how we can even begin to speak when we’ve shooed an important voice off of our court.” Baraneth closed her eyes briefly, sending out a brief call for patience before looking back across the table.   
“Arl Kendells,” Alistair said, drawing out the syllables as if testing that he had heard the voice correctly, despite the fact that the man had the look of someone with a dead fish being held beneath their nose. “You have disagreements?”

“I do, in fact.” Kendells sniffed. “You cannot just dismiss one of the Bannorn and then continue on as if nothing happened! You are not even instated yet as the rules state so this is _moot_ . There is no _point_.”

Afstanna Eremon, tunic embroidered with the bronze spoked week and aquamarine waves of the Waking Sea, sighed loudly, tracing her fingers idly across the table. Kendells’ eyes snapped over to her, his nostrils flaring. “Kendells, as our majesties have stated multiple times this meeting is to lay the foundation for our true meetings as we are all here for the wedding as it is, perhaps pulling your head out of your arse would help you hear better.”

“Besides,” Wulff butted in. “Gell has no claim to Edgehall legitimately as it is; there’s been rumors he’s been an Orlesian puppet for _years_. I say good riddance.”

Kendells slammed his hands hard enough on the table to rattle the inkwells of the scribes sitting at the far end and Alistair’s hand braced on the arm of his chair, preparing to stand and break things up. She slid her hand across his, brushing a finger across his knuckles and giving a small shake of her head. Perhaps it would be best to let them squabble it out like dogs over food scraps; if teeth started to come out then they would step between.

“Edgehall suffered under the Orlesian occupation _and_ the Blight, you can hardly blame him for being infuriated that nothing has been done for aid!”

Alfstanna frowned. “That was not Gell’s complaint; he accused Alistair Theirin of being a false king.”

From the corner of her eye, Baraneth saw the furrow form between Alistair’s brows and watched him mouth _I’m right here_. She could practically see the gears turning over in his mind, piecing together the aid they’d given to Edgehall in particular despite their less than amiable greeting and she prayed that he would let the moment pass without interceding. They didn’t need to be or come across on the defensive; they had to be assured.

“When enough corruption and destruction come unwelcomed into you’re home those at the top start to lose their magic. You wouldn’t understand: the Waking Sea is so far north it’s practically in the Free Marches! What did you get of the Blight there?”

Wood ground against stone as Alfstanna pushed her chair back abruptly, planting her palm on the table so she could lean across so growl at Kendells. “Keep your petty insults your own!”

Arguments quickly took over civil conversation, a din of raised voices and vitriolic words rising. The hounds had finally started snapping, as it were.

“Alright!” Baraneth’s voice cut across the rabble and slowly it reigned back in to only a few disgruntled murmurs. “That is enough!” Pressing her fingertips to her forehead, she gave it a little shake. “This is supposed to be _cordial_.”

“I believe this adjourns this meeting.” Alistair continued, words falling in rapid succession as if that would keep the squabbling at bay. “All that we will be able to accomplish  has been covered today. Thank you all for your willingness to meet. You’re dismissed.” There was a worn edge to his voice and as the collected stood, grumbles still audible, dipping their heads respectively before departing, his chin tipped to his chest and he gave his head a little shake. “Maker’s breath…”

Standing and brushing her hands over her skirt, Baraneth trailed a hand over his shoulder as she walked behind his chair, letting her arms loosely loop around his neck and her cheek rest ahead his head. “We’ve survived; I think that’s a small feat.”

“Surviving...I thought we were done considering survival alone a feat.” there was a tired joke in Alistair’s voice as he stood, offering her a small and quirked up smile. “At least now all Eamon has to fuss at us about is the wedding planning.”

Bobbing her head, she leaned her weight against her chair to push it in. Weariness was sweeping over her, whether a product of the meeting or their late night, she wasn’t quite sure but she _was_ sure that her suggestion of a royal naptime probably would not fare well. “Indeed...it’s simply planning. May as well start on it with the remainder of our day.”

Oh how grave a mistake it had been to suggest their early start to Eamon; within the hour they had a task list as long as Alistair was tall and they were ushered off to the study, where Baraneth swore Eamon locked the door and lost the key. She’d not tried the handle yet, but if they weren’t released from their plush prison soon then they may consider trying it.

“I do believe my hand is going to fall off.” Letting her quill drop back into the inkwell she sat back in her chair as far as it’s wooden back would allow, rubbing her hand to try and dismiss the cramps that assaulted it. Alistair groaned in what she hoped was agreement, not lifting his head from the desk where he had let it thump minutes before. “Eamon is going to have our heads if we don’t have these signed by this night’s dinner.”

“ _Eamon_ clearly has never signed his name fifty times over just to invite some irrelevant nobles to some big celebration. How were they chosen? At random from a hat?” Alistair said vehemently, voice muffled by the desk. “I think my name has lost all meaning to me. It just looks like you let a child take a pen to vellum.”

“This is our _wedding_ that you dismiss so.” she protested, wearily picking up her quill once more to sweep her name across the paper when she felt Alistair shift beside her and his arm slip around her.

“We’ve already had _our_ wedding.” He reminded her, kissing her cheek warmly, then the corner of her mouth until finally pecking her lip, sending her into a mad fit of giggles. “This one is just what, a second chance to not be struck speechless by my stunning wife?”

“ _Betrothed_ on that day.” Baraneth chastised, as if reciting from a schooling book. “Our marriage has yet to be recognized or consumated.”

“Not for lack of want.” Alistair whispered lowly, a teasing note taking root in his voice. “Or trying.”

She hummed in agreement, rolling her eyes at the times they’d had to halt moments of unthinking heat where they once would’ve run wild, leaning into his warmth and tilting her face into his neck. “But for now, we’ve work to do.”

Alistair pressed his face into her hair, laughing wearily. “Like what? We’ve been doing so much.”

Wiggling the vellum stack in her hand she peaked at the first page, filled with crossed off tasks and scrawled new ones in the margins. “Would you like me to start on page one or three?”

At the responding groan she cleared her throat. “Page one it is then; we both still need to have our fittings done for our formal attire. We have formal thank yous to the Bannorn for delegating their time to such a momentous event--Eamon’s words not mine--and…”

“Bara, _stop_.” Alistair groaned louder, batting about with his hand to try and knock the vellum from her grasp. “You’re making my head spin.”

With her free hand she nudged his head, lightly rapping it with her knuckles. “If _that’s_ what makes your head spin, love, then we’ve got some serious training to do on mental fortitude. There are some things that are far worse than a simple to do list.”

“Simple,” Alistair scoffed. “And here I thought I was saving you from a so called afflicted hand because of that to-do list.”

Touche. While she wasn’t wrong that there were worse things she could think of laying in store for them than endless lists of menial tasks, now wasn’t the time or the need to harp. It was just teasing and she had to pull herself from the grasping claws of work to remember that.

“Maybe I’ll just leave you to these letters then,” Alistair continued, turning away slow enough that she had time to toss her quill aside and latch onto his arm.

“Don’t abandon me to these papers!”

Alistair arched a brow at her, voice quaking with laughter. “I thought this was easy for you? I thought you _liked_ it?”

Using her old words against her was a dirty tact, and Baraneth considered sticking her tongue out at him before deciding that nay, if she wanted any chance of escape than she had to play her cards right. Puckering out her lower lip she looked up at him with her best pathetically-tired-and-sad expression. “In moderation only! I think we deserve our rest for the evening, after all we’ve accomplished quite a lot.”

Alistair nodded carefully, lips jumping as he fought against a smirk. “‘It _is_ getting quite late.” he agreed, continuing to draw her back towards the door. It gave as he leaned against the handle--Eamon _hadn’t_ yet thought of, or gone through with, locking them up to get work done then--and they spilled out into the hall. “Did you know that exhaustion puts one more at risk for ill health? Ferelden can’t have us falling ill.”

“Of course not.” she agreed, nodding sagely. “I’m sure they will understand.”

They made it back to their shared rooms--well, by all official titles she supposed it was _Alistair_ ’s chamber, with hers being adjacent--without any witchunt for them, no shouting for them to return immediately to the study for more planning.

“Besides, flower types, flower arrangements, decorative draperies, I just don’t see why they are making such a big show out of this!” Alistair exclaimed as he paced about their chambers, tossing aside his shirt in favor of a looser sleepshirt, plopping down on the edge of the bed to undo his boots. Bara had already tossed aside her vestments from court, curled in their bed with the covers snuggled tight around her chin, despite the book she had pulled from a corner shelf splayed open across her hips. She hummed, breaking from her idle admiration of Alistair’s movements in the low light to raise her brow and quote,

“I believe it is the ‘biggest event of the year’. Or so I’ve been told. Multiple times over.”

“For Andraste’s sake! We’re Ferelden not Orlais.” Alistair scoffed, flopping backwards onto the bed. “I think I’d rather face down another Emissary than be asked to choose between a tulip and a lilly.”

Baraneth leaned over to tangle her fingers in his hair, chopped short once more after it had grown out during the tour, and pressed a kiss to his hairline. “Could be worse, love, we could be in the Deep Roads again: given the choice between the dark, scary tunnel or the darker, scarier tunnel that’s probably the right direction.”

He closed his eyes, groaning. “I’d take the dark scary tunnels.”

She laughed softly. “It’ll be over soon, then we can get to the _fun_ stuff. Such as troop movements and political gambits.”

“You are a terrifying, terrifying woman.” Alistair breathed. “Political gambits, _fun_? I don’t believe you.”

“Just you wait until we’re pouring over maps and documents, searching for the exact threat to pull to tumble our opposition.” Baraneth could feel the excitement pulsing through her veins beneath the day’s exhaustion just at the thought of it. It was everything she never had the chance to try in Highever and would now be able to put that knowledge to good and practical use if the need ever arose. She wouldn’t go to her knees each night begging the Maker to bring turmoil into Ferelden simply so she could flex the skills she had been learning throughout her teenage years, that was a recipe for disaster and a coup, but the thought of it all still put a tingle down her spine.

“That sounds exhausting.” He pushed himself up from the bed, just to come around and melt into the bed on his side, draping his arm over Baraneth and stuffing his face into his pillow. “This whole thing is exhausting. I didn’t realize I could _lose_ energy from standing around and talking.”

“Such is the life of politicians.” she unearthed herself from her nest of blankets long enough to blow out the candles offering their flickering light. “But Maker, am I hoping for a long nights rest tonight.”

She didn’t get a response, Alistair had already fallen asleep with soft breaths muffled in his pillow, his shoulders rising and falling rhythmically. With a soft smile she snuggled back down and let her own eyes drift closed.  

* * *

 

If Baraneth had to spend one more moment standing still as a statue, propped in front of that Maker-forsaken mirror in her chambers she was going to be the first Ferelden queen to be labeled the Mad Queen before her coronation. Already she had been draped in six different fabric colors and near ten textures the week before, the past day she was strung in and out of corsets to see which would shape her best, or whatever excuses the handmaidens flitting about her gave.

She thought perhaps today she would be able to perhaps sit and work on the policies she envisioned for Ferelden, the ideas that had been stewing in her nightly rest’s eye that had only been captured in hastily scribbled notes in a bedside journal by dawn’s light. But it was too much to hope for, she was seated on the footstool in front of that mirror, a toothed comb being dragged through her hair again and again.

“My lady how you maintained such long hair amidst all the fighting you did is something I cannot understand.” Baraneth winced as the comb raked through her hair again, biting at her ear.

“I braided it.” she offered dryly. “Or stuffed it into my helm in a bun.”

Her head was pulled back as suddenly her handmaiden seized a handful of her hair, beginning to twist it with vengeance. Her exclamation was met with a _tsk._

“We truly need to decide what to do with it for the wedding, do stop being so dramatic.”

“Just let it lay down as it is.” she barked, a pang going through her; it was an argument she had fought multiple times over before any formal event with her mother and though her status had changed she doubted she was going to win it now either. Her suggestions to just let her hair fall free were never headed--it always had to be done up with _something_ , pins or ribbons or the odd flower and braids.

Very deliberately her handmaiden set aside the comb she had been dragging through her hair, placing her hands on either side of Baraneth’s head in a way that felt like vice. For an older woman--probably around the same age as Nan had been--she had a remarkably strong grip.

“My _lady_ ,” she enunciated each word sharply. “You are going to be in front of your entire Bannorn and your people. Word of this union will reach as far as Orlais and beyond, it will be immortalized in the histories as an unheard of binding of two families. You _need_ to look the part.”

Baraneth thought back to simple farmers gowns and flowers woven in her hair in place of intricate pins and draping blue fabric. No one had cared then whether the shade of blue she wore was indigo or ultramarine or whether or not a strand of her hair fell out of place. She wanted to say that it didn’t matter, none of it really mattered, it was all just pomp and circumstance, but she knew just as well as everyone else that that wasn’t true. Everything they did mattered now, everything they did would be sketched and painted and written down in the history books.

It was constricting and frightening all at once.

 

* * *

 

The woman looking back at Baraneth in the mirror wasn’t her. It wasn’t the giddy woman who had smiled back at her in Eamon’s Denerim estate, nor what it the grim-faced girl who had glowered back during the Blight. Draped in the finest fabric, a deep blue that made her eyes vibrant, that hugged her torso and flared at her waist and wrists, her hair twisted until it fell in luscious curls down her back with a lace veil falling down her shoulders she looked every bit the queen that she had stepped into being. Her small gasp was met with shared smiles and chuckles.

“Has it finally hit, my lady?” one woman asked as she spread her veil out further across her hair, shifting a few stray pieces back into place. “It’s about time you showed some enthusiasm about your marriage.”

“I have always been enthusiastic.” Baraneth protested in a show of weak stubbornness. “I just did and do not appreciate being poked and prodded with pins and needles.”

Her handmaiden sighed dreamily, looking at Baraneth in the mirror and blowing past her complaint. “Your husband to be will simply _die_ seeing you. I don’t believe Ferelden has ever had such a lovely queen. And a _Cousland_ queen at that. Ferelden has been waiting for a match such as a Cousland and a Theirin.”

“You know my family name well enough to revere it?” Baraneth asked, surprised.

She bobbed her head. “My family is from Highever, I grew up there when your father was teyrn. Your mother and father were good people. And you seem to follow strongly in their footsteps.”

“I...thank you. I hope I can hold up to the standard my parents set.”

The smile she saw from the face of the mirror, set in a young, hopeful face, warmed her heart and soothed the irritation she had felt towards her and the others in the weeks past. “I believe you will and even live beyond them.”

“You’re too kind to me.” She smoothed her hands over the bodice and skirts of her dress, looking to the floor. “But I am honored by your faith in me.”

“I don’t think you need my faith.” The girl said brightly, grabbing and fixing a stray pin. “I think you will do just fine on your own. But let’s get you out of this so we can finish taking in the last parts of it.”

Baraneth stood still while the lacings of the dress were undone and it was carefully slipped off of her arms with dainty precision so as not to disrupt the carefully placed markings and pins.

As she pulled on the loose dress she had been running throughout the castle in for the majority of the day she dared a second look at the girl, chewing on the inside of her cheek as the girl went back to adjusting pins and threading thread through the eyehole of a needle. “What is your name?”

The girl startled, nearly poking an unintended hole through the fabric draped across her lap. “Pardon, my lady?”

“Your name? If you grew up in Highever...perhaps we’ve met and I simply don’t remember.”

“Oh,” the girl flushed pink, pushing the fabric of her dress together and smoothing it out once more. “No...we never would’ve met, my lady. I only saw you in passing, when you came down into the city. But my name is Mara.”

For a moment she studied the girl’s face, childish and round, trying to remember it from anywhere in Highever. She had spent countless of her free hours in the city, would they not have had the opportunity to run into each other at least once? But she could only recall her face in recent memory, never from before.

 _I know that you care deeply about your people, but you cannot help everyone individually._ She hadn’t believed it, but if she couldn’t even know a girl from her Teyrn than how was she supposed to understand all of those in Ferelden, all their opinions and needs, likes and wants and dislikes?

“Mara,” the name sounded soft in her mouth, kind, and she turned about, extending a hand towards the girl. Without putting her sewing down, Mara eyed Baraneth’s hand like it was a viper waiting to strike, round brown eyes looking up at her with the expression of a startled doe. Baraneth kept her hand extended even still, some wild need to bridge the gap between them taking over her. “I believe it’s a shame that we never knew each other despite living within the same space. I don’t want to simply be a passing face, or for those around me to just be blurs of faces.”

Mara’s expression went odd, seemingly caught between wary and confused though Baraneth couldn’t quite determine why. But then she set aside her needle cushion and gently laid the swathing blue fabric of Baraneth’s wedding dress on the wooden stool to her left, reaching out to ever so carefully curl the tips over her fingers over Baraneth’s. “You are a very strange woman, my lady Cousland. I’m not sure Ferelden will know what to do with you.”

“My hope is that they accept me with open arms and grand cheers.” she deadpanned, speaking before she had fully thought of what exactly was going to come out of her mouth, but Mara giggled and Baraneth couldn’t help but smile. “And I feel I should apologize for being short with all of you with this dress, you really are just doing your jobs and I shouldn’t be so bad tempered.”

At that Mara truly did smile and it transformed her startled look into something akin to a ray of sunshine, all of her wariness evaporating for at least a moment. “I think you underestimate the little...sharp ways that our staff returns bad temperament.”

When she laughed, Mara flushed pink, dropping her attention back to the stitching. “However we try not to do it often, I promise.”

“I’ve faced worse than a few pinpricks to the side, you needn’t worry about reprimanding me too harshly.” she looked up as a knock sounded at the door and it began to creep open.

“Bara? Are you there?”

But Mara had an expression like the creeping door was the mark of the world ending and she shuffled aside the lengths of Baraneth’s dress as haphazardly as she dared, lunging across the room and slamming both her hands on the door, pushing it so that it was mostly closed once more.

“No!”  From behind the wood there was a small yelp, like someone’s fingers had been caught or their noses had been whapped. “Her lady Baraneth is _not_ available to be called on at this moment!”

“But...she _is_ in there?” Alistair asked and Baraneth slipped a hand over her mouth, stifling a laugh she could feel building. Mara poised for action as if it was a battle brewing and not the question of a king and husband; she had pins at the ready on the cusion that now dangled from her corded belt and she was flushed pink, blocking the door fully.

“She is, but we are in the middle of wedding preparations. So I must ask you to leave.”

“I don’t...I won’t get in your way.” Alistair offered and while Baraneth couldn’t stifle her laugh, only soften it, Mara tutted with a frustrated look.

“ _No_ you most certainly will _not_ come in here. Her lady Cousland will come and find you when we are finished.” And with that, she slammed the door in his face. Baraneth laughed outright until the tutting turned on her.

“What?”

“A man is not to see a woman in her wedding dress before the wedding.” she sniffed. “It is asking for poor luck.”

“Well he has seen me in _less_ .” she said slyly. “And we managed just fine. The Maker didn’t smite us then, why now? As it is I am not _in_ my dress currently.”

Mara looked scandalized enough, teetering between an amusement and a disgruntledness that had her pressing her lips together that it nearly put Baraneth into giggles forceful enough to break the lacings of her corset.

Oh, she had tried to play the serious game but it became harder and harder when the reactions to her smart remarks were so volatile.

“Alright, alright, you’ve protected your queen,” Baraneth reigned  in her giggles to merely gasping breaths when Alayne, a gruff and elderly mage woman who had become her closest advisor among the pack that harassed her day in and day out pushed open Mara had been guarding. “Let her go, she has business to do outside your fittings.”

Offering an apologetic smile to Mara, hoping her jesting hadn’t ruined the softer moment they had shared before Alistair’s appearance, and recieved a good natured roll of the eyes and a shooing gesture in return.

“Thank you!” she whispered as she passed Alayne and received a knowing smile in return with an admonishing, “Do stop trying to frustrate them, dear.”

Through the halls she swept until she found her way into the study where Eamon had all but claimed his space, draped in personal effects. He looked up from his paperwork when she set her hands on his desk. “When can we actually begin our true work?”

“What do you mean? You’re planning for your wedding and your coronation. Is that not enough?”

Baraneth bit back a frustrated gripe, sinking into the chair across from his desk to give her aching legs and lower back some respite. “It _is_ . But I mean _true_ work. Reforms for mages, for elves. Relations with Orlais.”

“Relations with _Orlais_? I hope you know those changes won’t be fast moving.” Eamon scoffed, hardly looking up from his paper. Baraneth’s nails bit into the wood of his desk as she clenched her fingers. “All of this will need court approval, and you cannot call official court until your coronation. The sixth months of the official mourning period have not yet passed, it would be disrespectful to coronate you before.” He turned a critical eye on her. “I hope you’ve discussed these lofty goals with Alistair? The court will not listen to you alone.”

From the way they had responded to her and the reactions of the people beyond the nobles she doubted that; the people may adore Alistair as he was but they did not yet look to him as their source of direction. He still needed to learn to command, to let the ideas he had flow. Yet she offered a chilly smile, baring her teeth at him without any warmth. “Of course I have discussed it with him, this list of goals we’ve made together. But he still needs time to learn and adjust, I think we both know that.”

“As king he best learn quickly. The people will not look to you forever and they do not blindly adore Alistair the way they did Cailin. Eventually he will need to stand on his own.”

She wanted nothing more than to tell him to pack his things and go back to Redcliffe then and there, as if _he_ had any authority to dictate how the people would view Alistair and whether Ferelden would be kind to their new king. He seemed to forget that their people had rallied behind the idea of two warriors, Grey Wardens, as their monarchs rather than an established royal line. They were ready for change and willing to wait for it. “I just came to ask when we could start broaching our reforms, Eamon.”

Eamon was back to scratching his quill on his paper, his voice long suffering like she was a young girl demanding too many treats “After your coronation, my lady.”

“Lovely.” She bit back shortly. “I expect to be productive when we do.”

“You cannot break tradition, not when it involves respect of your previous monarch.”

She growled out a sigh. “ _Honestly_ Eamon, you’d think I was asking to dance on Cailin’s grave. If you’ll remember it was Alistair and I that gave our late king his burial rights at Ostagar. All I am asking is if we can start drafting some of the changes that we wish to accomplish.”

The look turned on her was sharp. “And I am telling you to _wait_. You may plan and note all you want but you will not be bringing a word of it to the Bannorn.”

“ _Eamon_!”

“Baraneth!” Eamon barked, finaility sharp in his voice. “This isn’t run by the way you want it, or the way Alistair wants it. There are _rules_ that need to be followed and you are acting childish.”

She rolled her eyes to the ceiling, counting silently to ten in her head just to keep from snapping. Perhaps Eamon was right, it held all the sharp reprove of her father whenever she had toed the line with him...but none of the underlying warmth. “I just don’t understand the _point_.”

Setting his quill aside, Eamon flexed his fingers before steepling them into a pyramid as if he was enduring a great suffering. In a tone that said he had repeated this already ten times over he began, “It is tradition and rules that are not easily broken. Your power is not yet solidified until after the coronation. Your wedding first unifies you, and the coronation sets the foundation from which you can build. Without that foundation anything you do will crumble.”

“But a structure with a strong skeleton can still stand alone.” she argued, though she knew it was a hopeless argument at root. Eamon would never yield, he was older, had more years in the Bannorn’s game and ultimately was her self elected advisor. It wasn’t that she wished to subvert all tradition--some tradition had a time and place to dictate order if nothing else; but she was going to go mad trapped inside Denerim, only planning superficial celebrations instead of solving issues that actively plagued her nation.

That was the manner of complacency and indulgences that caused hatred and revolution.

From the freezing look turned on her, it was the path they were going to have to take.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Kudos and comments are always appreciated <3
> 
> Feel free to come shout at me over on tumblr at captainderyn; I will happily shout about just about anything and post a lot of extra ficlets of the idiots in this story!
> 
> Next on our plates is the royal wedding!


	8. Chapter Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Denerim celebrates the royal wedding it has been preparing for for weeks, taking Bara and Alistair one step closer to truly taking the mantle as the Crown of Ferelden.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See the end of this chapter for lovely art!

_ 9:32 Dragon _

Denerim’s chantry had been transformed into a hall of glory for this day. The doors were thrown open, spilling sunlight into the halls that were already bathed in multi colored light streaming from towering windows depicting Andrastian scenes in vibrant tones of glass. Throughout the hall nobles shimmered like a strangely colorful sea of fine silks and polished leathers. Packed into the courtyard outside of the Chantry and spilling into the market square the common people strained to catch any glimpse of the proceedings that they could, dressed in their finest.

Baraneth took a deep breath, trying her best to drown out the noise of hundreds of voices around her. Even with her brother alongside her out on the steps she felt as though she was on a pedestal for all to observe. Anticipation built thick in her chest, knotting with nerves as she tilted her head to look over her shoulder, seeing the waving movement of a sea of people from behind the gauzy veil that drifted in her peripheral. 

She turned her eyes up as Fergus squeezed her arm lightly, offering her a smile crinkled the corners of his eyes. “Are you nervous? I would think not, since you’ve already been through this once…” he groused, earning a soft laugh from her. 

“That was a little different.” she protested. This hardly even felt like  _ her  _ wedding, rather like she was playing some other character. Her finely made dress skirt was heavy, pooling around her feet instead of light and patchworked cotton, her hair fell loose around her shoulders, draped in a veil rather than sweetly smelling flowers. 

Fergus inclined his head, a teasing scolding brewing in his eyes that she had  _ dared  _ to get married without at least informing her last remaining family, when from within the Chantry soft chords of a lute began a cue of music. He blinked and whatever teasing had lingered there was replaced by a soft sort of pride. He extended his arm to her and she took it carefully, brows drawing together slightly. 

“I’m proud of you, pup.” Fergus sighed. “I know you don’t like to hear it, but mother and father would be too.” 

“I know.” the words were more breath on her lips than audible noise and she let herself be drawn forward, taking another deep breath to settle herself, straightening her shoulders and lifting her chin as they stepped into the Chantry. 

All around her fluttered the banners of the nobility present, a colorful testament to the spread of those attending. Behind the grand dais two banners dominated the wall: the Highever laurels gleamed silver against fluttering blue, the twin Theirin lions roaring in gold on their backdrop of red. 

Around her flitted whispers and little gasps, vague gestures towards her and towards Alistair, who’s eyes she met down the aisle. Shining in ceremonial plate, a doublet of scarlet and gold peeking from beneath, he looked more a knight out of a storybook than the man that had faced her on the eve of the Blight. She saw a soft exhalation lift his shoulders, the way his lips parted in surprise before breaking into the infectious smile more radiant than any of the stained glass surrounding it. 

Their eyes didn’t leave each other as Fergus released her at the foot of the dais, not even as she face him opposed from the Chantry Mother. Even she, in duty as she was, could not keep the gentle smile from her lips in the face of his unabashed happiness and awe. 

Seperate rooms and a long night had preceded them. Unused to sleeping in a cold bed alone, Baraneth’s night had been spent restlessly caught between the waking world and vague nightmares. Late into the witching hours she’d gently nudged the door between their chambers open and found Alistair up and pacing as well, expression shaken and together they’d curled under the covers--not caring about tradition falling to pieces. As the dawn light had started to creep through their window, Baraneth had untangled herself from the covers and the safe comfort Alistair’s arms and snuck back into her own rooms until the crowd sent to ready them for their wedding knocked on her own door. 

The Revered mother extended a ceremonial blade between them, honed to perfection and shined to be a mirror-like reflection that reflected the spring’s sun and a hush fell across the hall. “Swear you now, on this sacred blade, that there is no reason known to you that this union  should not proceed.”

Alistair’s voice was unwavering, his eyes locked on Baraneth’s . This close she could see the golden flecks in them set off by the light from the stained glass. The sunlight splattered across them in hues of red, green and gold from the glass portrait of Andraste looking serenely down upon them. “I do so swear.” 

She spoke the same ceremonial words that she had in their own personal wedding, the same vows to be with Alistair faithfully until their deaths, the same to be both a nurturer and a protector, only now spoken and judged under the eyes of their people.  Despite having said them before she relished the chance to speak them again, to cry them to the whole word that she was not ashamed of her love nor would she love another. From the way Alistair’s chin lifted and he couldn’t quite suppress a smile she knew he felt much the same. 

But this time there would be no cords binding them together, life and soul. Gently resting on a small pillow two rings were extended towards them by a ring bearer in ceremonial plate, intricately carved golden bands inlaid with brilliant stones, that would remind all who saw them that they were bound. On the exterior words of promise were engraved. 

“Maker bless these rings which Alistair and Baraneth have set apart to be visible signs  of the inward and spiritual bond which unites their hearts. As they give and receive these rings may they testify to the word of the bond made between them.” The Revered Mother gestured to Alistair, then to the rings. “Proceed, lord.” 

Alistair’s hand shook as he picked up the smaller of the rings, then took Baraneth’s hand, cradling it carefully as he slipped the ring onto her finger. “Receive and wear this ring as a symbol of my trust, my respect, and my love for you.” 

While the words were not spoken from his own mind, they had been given traditional words to follow, she felt no less warmth from him as he lifted her hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to the ring and then to the back of her hand. “With this promise I swear to stand together as equals with you.”

Baraneth reached for the remaining ring, slipping it on his own hand with a small smile as she repeated the same words, keeping his hand in her own long after her lips had graced the band now on his finger. “I swear to you that we stand together as equals, through all the trials we may face.”  

“This circle will now seal the vows of marriage and will symbolize the purity and endlessness of their love. You have pledged of your own free will and sworn upon the Sword,  you have exchanged rings. May it be granted that what has been done before the maker may not be undone by man. Before I proclaim you joined you must kiss three times on cue.” 

Alistair drew Baraneth closer with a tug on her hand, their interlocked fingers pressed between them,  one hand cupping her cheek as the Revered Mother continued to speak. “Once for luck.” 

They wouldn’t need luck, even as they kissed, quick and gentle. They had long survived without luck, or perhaps only on luck.

“Twice for love.” 

A second time, longer but no less gentle; there was no doubt of their love for each other in their minds, Baraneth didn’t need this ceremony or the one before it to validate that. 

“Thrice for long life.” 

A third, lingering with the slightest whisperings of heat. There was no hope of a long life for them, not as long as they would ever have hoped for with the taint coursing through their veins, but they would do with the time they had as much as they could. 

Baraneth was the first to step back, their intertwined hands dropping back between them. This Revered Mother did not offer them a soft smile, though there were noses being blown and eyes being dabbed in the crowd. 

“By the power vested in me by my realm I now pronounce you Lord Alistair Theirin and fair lady Baraneth Theirin, Husband and Wife. Your rightful King and Queen.”

With a great smile, Alistair’s arm snaked around her waist, pulling her back for one last kiss as cheers erupted around them, the cacophony of shouts and clapping hands. 

His arm lingered around her waist as they faced their people, breaking from her only as she hurried down the steps, throwing herself at her brother. Fergus stumbled back as he caught her, arms wrapping tight about her with a shocked laugh and an “Easy, easy!” 

“Thank you for being here,” she voice was thick with emotion, muffled in the fabric of her brother’s doublet. 

His laugh was a little awkward, his hand lightly patting between her shoulders. “Pup, I was obligated to be here.” 

Clearing her throat she detached herself from her brother, sweeping her hair back with a sniff and watery laugh. “For standing in father’s place.” she amended. 

“He would’ve come and flayed me alive if you walked down the aisle alone,” he reached over to lift Baraneth’s downturned chin with his finger, a soft chuckle escaping him. “I was proud to see you off. But you’ve no time for sadness today, your people are waiting for you outside those doors.” 

“Right,” pulling herself together, she nodded, taking Alistair’s proffered arm. “There’s still much to be seen to. I will see you at the festivities tonight, Fergus.” 

In the courtyard two gleaming palfrey horses stood, draped in scarlet brocaded barding, coats groomed to shining ebony. Around the courtyard a handful of guards milled about on snorting horses, gleaming in ceremonial plate and pristine caparisons, waiting to escort them through the streets. 

“I spoke to Eamon and convinced him that we didn’t need to be locked in some horse drawn box.” when she glanced up at him, brows arching, his lips quirked up in a grin. 

“Maker bless your forethought,” Baraneth pressed her lips together. “But I can’t believe Eamon will listen to you and not to me! That simply isn’t fair!” 

His hand settled against her lower back, guiding them over to the horses. “If it’s any consolation I think he just nods and says ‘Yes, Alistair’ in a mildly irritated tone, not actually listening to what I’m asking.” 

“Perhaps this is an asset.” Baraneth suggested innocently, holding out a hand to one of the horses, who stretched out a nose bearing a white stripe towards her.  

Alistair snickered even as a harried groom scurried between them, bowing his head in greeting. “My lord, lady, the people are quite eager to see you.” 

“I believe they’re only eager to see the radiant queen.” Alistair corrected, laughing as he caught her roll of the eyes and shooing motion. While it was perhaps in part true--much of the speculation and gossip she’d heard among the staff had been in relation to how she would appear--what color her dress would be, the cut, how would this be a memorable moment in Ferelden royal marriage history--but she doubted there weren’t people who’d been just as interested in how Alistair would appear. 

“I guess we’ll have to see about that.” she quipped, gathering her skirt as best she could as the groom took to a knee, interlocking his hands to give her a leg up onto her horse. Frowning as she squirmed around in the sidesaddle, she fussed with her skirt until it laid properly; she’d rather her first act as the married queen to be sliding off of her horse in the middle of the Denerim streets. 

“All sorted?” Alistair teased, pulling his horse up alongside hers. She whipped her head around, sorely tempted to stick out her tongue in a childish fashion at the jab and settled instead for sticking her nose into the air. 

“Perfectly. Shall we?” with a wicked grin she clucked her horse onward, trotting off down the pathway. The striking of horseshoes on packed dirt followed briskly and Alistair trotted up alongside her. 

“Should I be worried about you galloping off through the streets of Denerim, leaving me behind?” 

Brushing unruly strands of hair falling across her forehead from the disruption of the trot, Baraneth reached out, wiggling her fingers until Alistair reached out in kind, twining their hands together as they slowed to a walk. “You needn’t worry about be running off where you cannot follow--remember? Besides,” she gestured to the streets cheekily. “There’s far too many people to let out and gallop.” 

“Wonderful to know that you’re only tie here is the streets obstructing your flight from me,” Alistair quipped back. “Just what any freshly married man wants to hear.” 

“You aren’t  _ freshly  _ married,” she reminded him. “You are now  _ twice  _ married. To the same women...in less than a year’s time.” 

Alistair mused, pressing his lips together. “When does that make our anniversary?” 

It was sincere enough a question to catch her off guard and she blinked. “Pardon?” 

“We've been married twice now...once prior to the Blight, once today. Both technically official.” he raised his eyebrows at her as if clueing her into something she was missing. “So which date do we use?” 

If the question itself caught her off guard, the problem in question gave her pause entirely. Which  _ did  _ count for their anniversary? Sure they could choose either of them, but for all intents and purposes it would officially count as today. Perhaps two different dates would make it confusing but...their first marriage--though even thinking of it as such made it sound odd,  _ real  _ marriage didn’t sound right either--was what had meant the most to them. “I believe it’s whichever one we would like. For outward appearance’s sake it would be today. But…” she trailed off, shrugging helplessly. 

Alistair laughed, tipping his head back towards the sky. “Bara, it isn’t that serious of a question, don’t look so concerned.” he teased gently. “We could choose any day to celebrate and it would function just the same.”

“It’s  _ important _ !” she protested, distress rushing through her at the trouble. Alistair was correct, it really didn’t matter  _ what  _ day, but forgoing their original marriage felt like discounting it, but to disregard their royal marriage felt like stepping into trouble that could only end with cries of heresy. Worrying her lower lip, she held his amused, yet soothing, gaze for a few beats  before letting her breath out in a whoosh of air. “But not so important it needs to be settled now.” 

“We can puzzle together our story later,” tone kept light, Alistair nudged his horse into a brisk walk, gesturing for her to follow. After a pause, she did, walking close enough for their stirruped feet to brush once they broke out of the Chantry’s courtyard and into the market square, a path two horses wide clearing through the throng of people. 

Their people pressed close, all straining to catch a glance as they walked by. Countless hands reached out to brush the hemline of Baraneth’s dress, the scarlet caparison of her horse, or her fingertips as she reached down to offer her hand across the crowd. Even when they passed on from the market, people still swarmed the streets, pressing together to clear their path without relinquishing more of their view to their passing than they were forced to. 

Flowers streamed around them, the pale petals of dog rose and honeysuckle catching in Baraneth’s skirts or in her horse’s mane as they walked, thrown from the baskets at children’s feet or from the arms of men and women alike. At the centermost of Denerim’s squares they were forced to a standstill by the people, crowding around just to see the two subjects of the day and capture that moment in their memories. 

Their horses stood close enough for her leg to brush Alistair’s and leaning over she interlaced her fingers with his, their unburnished rings brushing together in a new sensation. When she tugged him over, his motion easily following the gentle insistence of her hand, she tilted her head up and caught him in a kiss. 

Painters and sketch artists alike later would depict image after image of their beaming smiles in the second they broke apart, with the spring light dancing around them and the dogwood petals swirling. Baraneth didn’t remember anything but the flare of happiness fogging up her mind and the gentle rightness that settled over her in that moment. 

* * *

 

 Candles were strewn across the courtyard, lanterns hung across all around as the wedding day wound to an end. The doors into the great hall were thrown open and people milled in and out, some eating, some talking, and most imbibing and dancing to the tune of the bards and minstrels plucking their tunes.  Baraneth sat at the end of the long table, a drink clutched in her hand as she laughed raucously at the joke made by some nobleman with control over one of Amaranthine’s vassals. Alistair listed into her shoulder, shaking with laughter that could not find voice. 

The long table sat in the great hall, lit by hanging round chandeliers of burning candles and the great hearths burning at either end of the hall. Either side was lined by the chairs they had so painstakingly hunted down from every storage room and cubby within the castle; the table laden with dishes of food, heaty meats and stews combined with blander dishes of wholly Ferelden food. Flagons of drink were set at intervals, though the taps in the cellar were flowing freely. The air was filled with the ambient chatter of nobles and staff both and the hearty smell of food and drink. 

Outside, Denerim’s streets were just as filled with life, commonfolk held their own feast in the market place despite the gates to the royal palace being thrown wide open, with burning torches lighting the streets from palace to square and their own singing music streaming through the air. The noise from the marketplace carried over the river, strains of music just audible against the backdrop of laughter. Lights could be seen twinkling from the balconies, reflecting into the dark waters of the river. 

Even troubles facing the state had been tossed aside for tonight; no nobles challenged Alistair’s bloodlines or her status at his side and even the downtrodden seemed to rise, for a time. Kendells sat laughing alongside Wulff, the tiff from the courtroom all but forgotten for the night over the goblets clutched in their hands.

Baraneth ate the hearty foods and sweet treats to her heart's content, until it felt like her belly was straining against her corset and like she wouldn’t ever be able to look at a tart again. While some of the men and women around her drained their glasses time and time again she only picked at hers, preferring to laugh at and partake in the uproarious conversations rather than instigate them. When one woman slung her arms around her shoulders and began to spin some tail of an Orlesian and a rabbit’s nest that would have put Leliana’s to shame she finally began to grow weary of the drunken conversations. 

She leaned into Alistair’s shoulder, shifting her head so that she could whisper to him. “Do you believe it’s time to take our leave?” 

“I won’t miss these people if you won’t.” Alistair whispered back. “I’ve smelled enough wine scented breath for one evening.” 

“Perfect.” She sighed in relief, pushing her chair back as Alistair smiled charmingly at the nobles around them, swinging out of his chair. 

“As much as we appreciate your appearance here today and our conversations, I believe we are going to take our leave. It’s been a long day.” 

“Ah, I see, you have other matters to attend to.” Alistair rolled his eyes at the commentary called out by the nobles around them as he extended a hand out to Baraneth. 

“May I?” He asked, miming picking her up. “For luck’s sake?” 

“You may.” She agreed, pursing her lips. “If you  _ must _ .” 

He grinned, making a show of sweeping her into his arms. Despite herself she giggled, looping her arms around his neck and ducking her head against his shoulder to press a teasing, nipping kiss against his neck, relishing the way that he jumped ever so slightly.

“There are  _ matters _ that have long needed attending.” She whispered mischievously. 

None of the staff stopped them as they stumbled through the halls, laughing, instead simply moving out of their way with knowing smiles. 

As their chamber doors closed behind them Baraneth could no longer resist, kissing Alistair hard enough that he nearly dropped her. “There is nothing that can smite us now.” she purred, and did it again, simply because she could. Alistair groaned into her mouth, setting her down. His hands wandered from her lips up her sides, toying with the lacings of her dress. They came loose and she wriggled out of it, the sleeves and bodice catching on her hips as she caught him once more. 

“And now I can do this.” Alistair rumbled, low in his chest in a way that set a fire burning in her, his fingers undoing to knot of ties keeping her corset tight and his mouth finding her neck. When his hands paused a noise of protest slipped from her, her fingers dragging across his shoulders.  

“Perhaps not.” Laugh slightly breathless, Alistair pressed his face against her shoulder. She could feel the flush burning across his skin and with a soft growl she covered his hands with hers and guided his them back to the knot, aiding his hands in undoing them until the stiff-boned corset fell away. She made quick work on the clasps and laces of his doublet and undershirt, even as his mouth trailed warm across his neck and collarbone, teasing her. 

Vigorously she worked to yank it over his head, dancing back from his grip so that she could toss the vestments aside with a flourish, taking back to him with intent. For a moment they stalled, his hands sliding through her hair, plucking out the pins that held the veil in place so that it fluttered to the ground at their feet before they slid down, hands settling warm across her bare skin, his fingers digging into her hips as she hooked her fingers in the loops of his trousers, pulling him along with her as she stumbled backwards towards where she hoped the bed was. It was either the bed, or they were simply going to fall on the floor.

“Someone,” Alistair chuckled against her mouth. “Is a little eager, hm?” 

“Only too.” Baraneth purred, catching Alistair’s lower lip between hers and dragging her teeth across it slowly, relishing in the way his eyes drifted half closed or the way his body pressed closer, needy, to hers. 

The night had been long needed, long building and Baraneth got a rush of pleasure alone from knowing that they would soon be able to tangle together as they had both imagined trying to hold their royal chastity. Such a notion had been maddening at the time and seemed silly now; who would have known if they had done otherwise? At least it made now sweeter than it ever would have been before. 

And if nothing else, at least none of their advisors seemed naive enough to believe that this was to be the first night Alistair and Baraneth had spent together. 

* * *

 

Morning bloomed far too soon for Baraneth’s tastes, spilling golden light across her face from behind the curtained windows, bright enough to sting her eyes behind the shelter of their eyelids. Outside of the shelter of the blankets and quilt tangled around her and Alistair, the chilled morning hair sent a shiver across her shoulders. 

Not yet ready to toss aside the covers and face that chill or what was sure to be a busy day ahead, she snuggled deeper under the blankets, tucking herself closer to Alistair’s chest with a contented sigh. Blessedly the world seemed to have pause just for them for the moment, the whirlwind of tasks abating just long enough for them to catch this moment. 

Perhaps from the shining sun, or her soft exhalation, or perhaps even just an internal clock still set from days of rising and setting with the sun, but Alistair began to quietly stir. Through half-lidded eyes Baraneth watched as his own blinked open, bleary with sleep. “Hey,” he murmured, voice rough and just as sleepy as his eyes. 

It was adorable enough to elicit a smile from her as she curled her arm from where it was tucked between them to slide up to cup the back of his neck. “Hey yourself.” she said softly, any louder and she was afraid she’d break the easy peace that had fallen over them.

She shivered delightfully as arm that had been rested over her hips slid up, his hand settling between her shoulder blades with a gentle pressure that drew her closer, his lips soft against her forehead and then against her own. 

“Does it count now?” she almost lost his words in the bliss she let wash over her and she blinked back to herself, humming in question. 

“Does it count now,” he repeated, lips quirking into a grin that she felt against her skin as he pressed another lingering kiss to the corner of her mouth. “Are we officially married now?” 

It was a cheeky enough question that it very nearly had her rolling her eyes instead of using the gentle guidance of her hand to draw him into a deeper kiss. 

“Hm, does it count now that I am yours?” she hummed.

Beneath them the bed creaked as Alistair shifted his weight over her, bracing an arm by her head, taking his kiss and expanding on it in a way that had Baraneth practically melting. She drew her hands across his shoulders, keeping him close and relishing at the lack of space between them, just the way they’d yearned for. It was intimate, yes, but comforting, being enveloped so completely by a presence so familiar. 

A soft knock sounded at their door, a muffled voice coming through the wood and Alistair dropped his forehead to Baraneth’s, even as she let out a noise pitifully close to that of a displeased whine. 

“I think we ought to consider barricading the door.” she muttered mutinously as Alistair shifted away from her, calling out a disgruntled, 

“We’ll be with you presently!” 

Leaning over he gave her one last chaste kiss and a mischievous smile before he slid off the bed, rummaging about for clothing not related to the royal wedding garments haphazardly piled on the floor. 

Was this to be what it would always be like? Never having a morning’s privacy to themselves to bask in the night previous? Baraneth would almost take their old camp’s flimsy tents over that prospect--at the very least their friends were more than happy to turn a blind eye. 

Untangling herself from the bedsheets she padded across the floor, contemplating simply slipping on one of Alistair’s shirts before decided that while she had very little shame, a simple shirt--though Alistair was a fair deal taller than she--would show the poor soul sent to fetch them a bit too much of the queen of Ferelden’s legs. Though her wedding dress was heavy when she pulled it off the floor and she was loathe to do the lacings up again, she stepped into it and pulled the sleeves on. 

Unlike the dresses she had worn previously and that she had even worn as a girl, she couldn’t do more than the bottommost laces up on her own and with a soft curse she marched over to Alistair, kicking out the pooling skirt in front of her. “Could you perhaps do me a great favor?” she asked sweetly as he eyed the way she held her dress up with a hand clapped across the neckline with a look wavering between amusement and confusion. “And perhaps do up the lacings on this?” 

His brows drew together as he took in the dress once again before darting back up to her face, meeting her quirked brow with a sheepish half smile. “I could barely get them  _ un _ done and now you’d like me to tie them once again?” 

“The  _ dress  _ lacings, no corset.” she assured with an inelegant snort. “Trust me, you had no trouble with these.” Turning around she waved a hand behind her impatiently, hearing a tentative knock at the door once again. “I believe our morning birds are getting a bit impatient.”

With a quiet scoff shot through with amusement, Alistair took up the laces of her dress, humming for a moment as he tried to work out how she’d laced the bottom portion. When she tried to offer a suggestion he waved her off, knuckles brushing against her back as he tied. When he reached the top he nuzzled his face into her hair, pressing a kiss to the nape of her neck. “There you are,  _ my lady _ , in your beautiful dress yet again.” 

She smoothed her hands over the bodice, the pads of her fingers traveling over the elegant embroidery work almost reverently. It  _ was  _ a rather pretty dress, she couldn’t deny that for all the grumbling she had done while it was being made. But to Alistair’s comment she tilted her head to the side, smiling when he graced her with yet another brief kiss. 

She wanted to stay that way this morning, caught in the softness between them, sharing gentle kisses and wandering touches now that they could do so. Basking in the peace that their official marriage bought them. But they had work to do, yet another tentative knock at the door was a harsh reminder of that. “Is it wrong of me to prefer you as you are now? Without the ceremonial plate,  _ my lord _ .” she teased lightly before sighing. “Are we sure we promised the poor soul at the door to be with them presently?”  

“We did.” Alistair pulled away from her with a lingering reluctance. “It’s probably best we don’t keep them waiting  _ too  _ long, they might talk.” 

“There already is talk I imagine,” Baraneth followed him over to the door, rather curious despite her unwillingness to face the day as to what could be urgent enough to call on them with such persistence. Surely nothing could have gone too poorly in the night hours? She hoped not, she would rather like a honeymoon period, if that wasn’t too much to ask for. 

On the other side of the door a young, mousy girl stood, hands knotted together and eyes downcast. “Oh!” she squeaked upon being faced with them both, face flushing without provocation that left Baraneth wonder if perhaps either she or Alistair had forgotten an important garment or two. “Good morning your Majesties.” 

“Good morning,” Alistiar returned, eyebrow rising towards his hairline. “Or I hope it is.”

His joke fell flat as the girl scrabbled with her words, first shaking her head violently then nodding in kind. “No, well, yes! It is a good morning...I suppose.” helplessly, she knotted her fingers in her skirts, looking to Baraneth. “My lady, the Warden Commander wants to speak to you as soon as you are able. She said it was rather urgent. “

“Rather urgent?” Baraneth made a surprised noise. “What could be so urgent from the Warden Commander, did she say?” 

The girl shook her head. “No, not a word about it, just that you should come to her. I believe she has been directed to the main study.” 

“Well then,” she sighed. “If you pass by her again tell her I will be there shortly.” she muttered. “I just need to find something less fancy.” 

“Of course,” offering a small curtsy, the girl pivoted and disappeared down the hall. “I will let her know.” 

“I wonder what could be wrong.” she fretted, looking up to Alistair with drawn brows. “I’m sorry to be cutting our morning short...I was looking to taking at least these early hours to just...well, be.” 

Alistair smiled at her, running a hand down her arm to link their forefingers together. “It’s alright, I’ll just bask in the fact that you’ve been called to duty and not me instead.” he laughed as she shoved his shoulder, frowning at him. 

“You lucky bastard,” she pouted, unable to keep a serious expression for long. Pushing herself onto her toes, she pressed a kiss to the corner of his lips before backing out the door. “Spare some time for me later, hm?” 

“Of course.” 

His voiced followed her down that hall as she marched towards her chambers, bursting in like a whirlwind and working the ties of her dress undone as she nudged the doors of the wardrobe open with her elbows. Letting her dress puddle at her feet, she pulled out a much simpler day dress and ran her fingers through her hair in the mirror before marching right back out the door. It clinked closed behind her, nearly catching the trailing skirt of her dress and with a harried growl she bunched the skirt into her hands, hiking it up to her calves. 

Maker help her, she considered having her dresses hemmed to tea length only, scandalous ankles be damned. 

* * *

 

“Ru?” Baraneth swept into the room. “You sent for me? It was urgent?” 

Ruinel looked worn, dark half moons smudged under her eyes. The sleeves of her tunic were pushed up to her elbows, her arms bare of gloves but wrapped in gauze in a way they most certainly hadn’t been when they had left Amaranthine. 

Nevertheless she smiled when she looked up at Baraneth. “Nothing world endingly urgent...I just figured adding that would mean my message was most definitely delivered instead of lost somewhere along the way.” 

“Well, it worked.” Baraneth gestured to one of the plush chairs by the hearth, taking the other for herself. Perhaps she could grouse that her quiet morning had been interrupted, but despite the Warden Commander’s smile, it didn’t reach her eyes and her expression beneath was drawn. “What’s been going on? Eamon says you were detained before our court meeting and it seems like you’ve been through hell and back just to get here.” 

Ruinel sank down, letting her head fall back against the cushioned high back. “It appears that I am now the Arlessa of Amaranthine, officially that is. Esmerelle has…most unfortunately lost her position.” Her voice was monotonous, tired, but Baraneth sat up straighter, leaning forward. 

“Excuse me? Esmerelle has lost her position in favor of you? I’m afraid such political changes require a bit more explanation than that, Ruinel.” 

* * *

 

 

**_(art done by Anchanted_One)_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Kudos and comments are always appreciated <3
> 
> Feel free to come shout at me over on tumblr at captainderyn; I will happily shout about just about anything and post a lot of extra ficlets of the idiots in this story!
> 
> Thank you always to the group of individuals over on tumblr and discord who help me keep this fic going! You guys are the best <3


	9. Chapter Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ruinel brings dire news of what happened in Amaranthine and the reality of Baraneth and Alistair's position comes crashing in in harsh clarity before the coronation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back! Hope you all enjoy this chapter--inexplicably NOT four months later than the last! 
> 
> Content Warnings for mentioned abuse towards elves in Amaranthine (brief)
> 
> Formatting Update: There is a POV switch halfway through this chapter, just to keep us all on our toes (thank you to my lovely characters for *insisting* the chapter be written that way.

**_9:32 Dragon_ **

**Baraneth**

“It appears that I am now the Arlessa of Amaranthine, officially that is. Esmerelle has…most unfortunately lost her position.” Ruinel’s voice was monotonous, tired, but Baraneth sat up straighter. 

“Excuse me? Esmerelle has lost her position in favor of you? I’m afraid I require a bit more explanation than that, Ruinel.” 

“What  _ didn’t  _ happen.” the elven woman buried her face in her hands and in the shift of her arm she saw that the gauze was still spotting, like whatever lay underneath hadn’t yet fully healed. “A Dalish child was murdered in a vengeance killing, talking Darkspawn, broodmothers,  _ another Creators damned battle _ .” as she spoke the Warden Commander had keeled over her knees, her arms curling over her head. The monotony had fallen away to something raw and she was on her feet in a moment’s notice, resting a light hand between Ruinel’s shoulders. Underneath her palm the girl’s thin shoulders shuddered. She could feel the dents in the chestplate, the scratches that remembered a fight. What had  _ happened _ ?

There were too many questions she should ask, too many threads to follow. Vengeance killings? Battles? Intelligent darkspawn? Why didn’t she know any of this? 

But the revenge killing of a Dalish child...that sounded far too close to what Ruinel had told her of her separation from Clan Sabrae and if she were to hazard even a vague guess it was the source of the elf’s distress. “Ru...what happened to the Dalish?” 

Another long breath and Ruinel was lifting her head, shoulders still slouched but her eyes sought Baraneth’s. “Do you remember Velanna?” at her nod she sighed. “Before I brought her into the Wardens she was searching for her sister...searching often took a more violent turn. Even after those killings stopped the villagers weren’t happy and after the Darkspawn were taken care of…” 

“Ru…” 

Tone sharp, Ruinel snapped, “I  _ know  _ Baraneth, Creator’s sake not all of us can speak of tragedy so calmly as you.” 

Turning her gaze askance and giving the elf a moment to gather herself, Baraneth steadied her patience, reminding herself that the young girl in front of her was not versed in speaking of difficult things with detachment. That she still had much to learn before she could look at horrible things and explain them as though she was describing something as passively as a scene in a book. 

After a beat, Ruinel continued. “After the darkspawn were gone the  _ shem _ \--people surrounding Amaranthine turned their attention elsewhere. We were called to a crossroads on the Pilgrim’s Path, what we found once was a Dalish child and the men who’d kidnapped her from her clan. I’ll spare you the most grisly of details and send you the report if you truly need them.” 

She didn’t need a report to imagine what could have happened, hostilities against the Dalish weren’t as uncommon as one would hope and while they’d never been witness to anything in the flesh, there were stories enough to make your skin crawl. From the haunted look in the elf’s eyes even at alluding to it, whatever she saw could put the stories to shame. “And…?” she prodded. 

As shaken as she was, the moment passed and Ruinel lifted her chin, eyes chilly. “And they were dealt with in accordance to Ferelden law,” she said firmly. “But the Dalish clans in the area have retreated, unwilling to do trade with Amaranthine at the present moment and feeling more alienated by the passing day. A Dalish elf bringing justice to humans for brutalizing a Dalish elf does nothing to ease tensions.” 

“Of course, that should be addressed.” How they were going to diffuse that situation would take some thought she was certain, Maker forbid they needed any support presently from the nobility for they certainly were not going to get it easily when it came to the elves. “And on the matters of they Grey Wardens?” 

The sigh torn from Ruinel spoke of a great tiredness with the information she bore. “Do you want the better or the bad first? I will warn you, the bad far outweighs the better.”

So whatever had kept her away must have been worse than Baraneth could have thought, if the first reaction to telling it was to ask which was better: the bad news or the worse.  

“Whichever order you feels best suits what you have to tell.” 

Ears flicking and mouth drawing into a thin line, Ruinel hesitated. Whether it was from unwillingness to burden this room with heavy news or from sorting through where to start, it wasn’t clear from the surface. “In trying to disperse the last of the Blight, we found that the darkspawn in Amaranthine were not fleeing as we would like. When we went to drive them from Vigil’s Keep we encountered a talking ‘spawn that named himself the Withered. It worked for a creature known as the Architect, who claimed many things, the least of which being that he wanted to ally with the Grey Wardens.” 

Drawing back, Baraneth’s brows drew together. “The Architect? What, a man like Avernus at Soldier’s Peak?” 

“That would be too easy, Baraneth, try a darkspawn: born with a mind of his own and claiming that he was free of the control of the Old Gods. He wanted to free all darkspawn from that influence, the drive to seek and taint them.” 

“With the goal of what, ending the Blights? Creating darkspawn who could exist freely?” though her words were disbelieving, Ruinel’s nod quelled her doubts, the grave look in her eyes stilling any commentary she might have. 

“His goal at the moment was to kill a broodmother, much like we faced in the Deep Roads but...worse, so much worse. She was one of his experiments, given intelligence and driven mad by it. The Architect wanted me to ally with him, and maybe I should have, if it gave us some chance of stopping the Blight from ever happening again...but I couldn’t.” 

“So now they’re dead.” It wasn’t a question, nor an assumption really, but a guarded statement. As appealing as ending all Blights might seem, there was little chance that it would have come without untold repercussions far worse than any Blight they could face. 

“So they’re dead.” Ruinel agreed, though her frown still spoke of discontent. “And the darkspawn went back to infesting the Deep Roads and we’re bound for another Blight as soon as the creatures hunt down whatever Old God they can next find.” 

A chilling thought that sent icy fingers down her spine and her heart hammering uncomfortably. But to worry about another Blight’s beginning was just as productive as worrying that each winter would bring a famine ...potentially inevitable and moot to put your mind towards. “We cannot worry about another Blight now, it could happen in ten years or it could happen in a hundred, we have no way of knowing.” 

“No, I suppose not. But there was one thing that I found, and perhaps you’ll pay no mind to it since your not a mage,” Leaning forward with her elbows on her knees, Ruinel looked at her intently. “But in an area known as the Blackmarsh around Amaranthine there were anomalies in the Veil that I’ve never seen before. Tears in the Fade, like you’d see a rip in fabric that spewed demons and could only be closed when I went into the Fade itself.” 

She for certain was not a mage and much talk of the things mages worked in went over Baraneth’s head. But she knew the Fade, or at the very least had seen enough of it, to know that tears enough to let demons through was nothing to wave away as mere coincidence. “Do you know what caused them?” 

“A cruel woman calling herself the Baroness,” pausing, Ruinel’s eyes dropped, her voice lowering. “A blood mage, trapped herself and all of the villagers beneath her in the Fade when they tried to bring  about her end. Something within her spell sundered and left gaping tears. But they closed easily enough.” 

“Makers balls it’s never ending,” Baraneth cursed under her breath before drawing back her professionalism. “You did well in dealing with the situation, I’m sure. If demons are no longer crawling the Blackmarsh and villagers are no longer trapped in the Fade.” 

“I didn’t say anything about having success there....but you are correct.” Ruinel shifted uncomfortably. “You assume too optimistically on how things might’ve gone.” 

“You’ve not given me any reason so assume otherwise of you.” Raising a brow as Ruinel simply shrugged again and ducked her head she shook her head, clasping her hands in her lap and kneading the pad of her thumb against her knuckle. 

“Nevertheless you’ve still not told me of Esmerelle.” The disaster at Amaranthine went far deeper than sentient darkspawn and rogue Dalish elves, that much was for certain. Even further beyond tears in the Fade.  The Commander of the Grey didn’t acquire a political title by accident. “Speak to me not of Grey Warden business, but of politics now.” 

Ruinel drew herself up tall in her chair, brows drawing low as if the memory she drew on disgusted her. “Bann Esmerelle found herself the lead in a conspiracy against me and my Wardens.” she held up a hand to halt the questions that immediately jumped into Baraneth’s mind, expression softening into a sad sort of concern. “Not due to the Grey Warden presence. Bara, she and her conspirators believe that  _ I  _ killed Arl Howe and they sought to avenge him.”   

Even now Arl Howe  _ still  _ continued to haunt them, Baraneth’s lip curled even as an uncomfortable reminder curled in her gut. “You weren’t the one to kill Arl Howe, I landed the final blow. Why would they turn against the Grey Wardens?” 

“Because they believed it was I who landed the blow instead.” Ruinel repeated. “But if there are still Howe loyalists out there, and I’m sure there are some still in your court, let them believe it was the Warden Commander who killed their arl and not their queen who drew the sword.”  

“Ru, you cannot shoulder the blame for Howe’s death.” While a small part of her, the angry hurting girl that had landed the final blow beneath these royal halls, wanted the dissenters to know it had been the Couslands rectifying the grievous wrong that had almost destroyed their house, the queen and friend worried about the judgement of Howe loyalists against the Dalish mage Commander if it had been her hand weiding the blow. 

“I can and I will,” voice firm, Ruinel wasn’t willing to give her the room to argue. “So far as I understand the many of Amaranthine are happy with the state of their arling with the few dissenters gone. None within my court have given me reason to believe they hold ill will towards myself or the Crown proper.” 

Taking a breath and softening her voice, Ru leaned across her chair to grace her hand over the rigid, white-knuckles hand of the queen-to-be. “I know you fear for me--don’t try to brush it off, I can see it in your eyes--and I know these events won’t settle well for you but it is under control.” 

Agitation pulsing hot through her blood, Baraneth whisked to her feet, pressing her hands together and nesting them at the small of her back as she took three steps one way then three steps in the other. Her mind raced with what Ruinel had told her, the emotions raging alongside them, and thoughts rampaging with what could be done. A creeping dread settled like a pit in her stomach the longer the conspiracy danced in her mind. “There’s something that surely can be done...we can call another court before the coronation, inform them of what’s happened…” 

“You  _ cannot _ ,” Ruinel rocked to her feet, grabbing Barneth’s forearm and giving a mighty tug to pull her round to face her. “Absolutely not, Bara.” 

“And why not?” she shot back. “This is an issue facing our Bannorn!” 

“You have a coronation to be preparing for, Howe’s lingering supporters are the least of your concerns in any case. What you should do is write to the Keepers of the Dalish in Amaranthine, assure them that they aren’t alone amidst Ferelden hostilities, if supporting the elves is truly a pillar you are going to rest your support on.” the passionate forcefulness in her tone gave Baraneth pause. “And you’re going to write to the dwarves telling them of Kal’Hirol, perhaps that will take your mind from the Howes.” 

“And Nathaniel? Will he be gracing our courts?” 

“Nathaniel has no interest in following the legacy of his father,” shaking her head, Ruinel released her hold on Baraneth’s arm. “He is working elsewhere to cleanse his family’s name, not retake their lands.” 

Bringing to mind the man she had met in Amaranthine, respectful in everything but his short greeting of her and moments of tension driven by both of them, Baraneth dipped her head. She wouldn’t fault a son for the sins of his father, she  _ shouldn’t _ . 

“But,” rummaging around in a small pouch at her belt, Ruinel pulled out two folded sheets of vellum, creased and stained with the elements. “I found these in the Keep. I figured they might be of interest to you.” 

The vellum was yellowed along the edges, corners bent and gone soft when she closed her fingers around it. Folding the first letter carefully open and reading the header, she arched a brow at Ruinel. “Addressed to Arl Howe?” 

“Proof,” Ruinel explained. “That not all who were once allied with Howe were against the Couslands. The same can still hold true now.” 

With a breath hissed out, Baraneth closed the letters back safely, pressing them tightly between her thumb and forefinger. Perhaps it could be reassuring that not all of Howe’s men stood with him on his plan to attack her family, if she was able to breath long enough to unpack all that needed to go alongside it. “Thank you, Ru, I appreciate the thought.” 

With a lift of her shoulder, the elf slipped towards the doorway. 

“Oh, and Baraneth,” As if an afterthought, she paused in the doorway, hand resting against the wood as if to catch herself and the thought she wished to give voice. “Empress Celene in Orlais isn’t pleased with the Wardens, or perhaps Ferelden. We lost some Orlesian Wardens to the darkspawn and even before that she’s not happy that Loghain turned her Wardens away during the Blight. I thought you should know.” 

A pit growing in her stomach, Baraneth bit her lower lip and filed that away for later. They didn’t need to invite Empress Celene’s ire now, not when she could amass a force with the snap of her fingers and take Ferelden’s poor decision as a declaration of war. “Noted, thank you Ruinel.” 

As she stepped alongside Ruinel she slid her arm round the girl’s shoulders. The Warden sank into the tough, letting her head drop to Baraneth’s shoulder momentarily with a tired breath. “I’m sorry you’ve not had a moment of rest and for the things you’ve seen.” 

“No more than you’ve had a moment of rest. Though at least I’ve wielded blades instead of words.”  With a soft chuckle, Ruinel pulled away enough to look up at Baraneth. “Though I appreciate your sympathy and apologize for pressing this all on you at once. Perhaps I should have called on you and Alistair both but...I didn’t feel I could confide on harsher matters.” 

“In due time you’ll grow used to it, but not all things cannot be said to many.” Baraneth let her arm slip from Ruinel’s shoulders. A dark cloud of worry settled over her, roiling with all this new information, even as she smiled softly at her friend. “Some tragedy and hardship is better kept confidential. I’ll relay this information to Alistair nonetheless.” 

* * *

 

**Alistair**

There were a hundred reasons that Ruinel could’ve pulled Baraneth aside and if Alistair let himself consider any of them for too long as he fussed about for the start of the day, none of them looked good in the slightest. 

Darkspawn reappearances--not all that uncommon after a Blight but they should be starting to run back to their nasty little hidey-holes, not coming  _ out  _ of them--or perhaps some manner of mutiny among the Wardens. General mutiny, some trade crisis in the port of Amaranthine, there was any number of things that could’ve gone horribly wrong. 

Perhaps Ruinel only calling on Baraneth would be reassuring from the outside eye looking in, it would have been reassuring to him if he wasn’t fully aware that the elf simply was more comfortable confiding in his wife and was more comfortable around her than around him. 

He had no way of knowing until Baraneth returned or he was called to the study where they were talking, but his mind was not kept to idle worrying for long, another knock at the door sounded insistently. 

“My lord, are you still in there?” 

“I am, hold on for a moment please.” Ruffling his fingers through his hair, the gesture doing nothing to assuage his nervous thoughts yet everything to assuage the part of him that thought it would help, he pulled open the door  and found himself eye to eye with a stack of vellum and books. 

A young woman peeked out from behind the books, lower lip caught between her teeth in concentration over the teetering stack. Though he didn’t know her name, Alistair had seen her running along beside Baraneth on multiple occasions and had seen her more than once fussing with the dress that Baraneth had worn on their wedding. If memory served him well, it had been mentioned over the pillows one night that she was from Highever. 

From Highever or no, with another respectful “my lord,” she dumped the books and vellum into his arms and he danced an ungraceful routine to keep all the items from falling to the floor as she blew hair back from her face. “I’ve been sent to drop these off, ser.” 

“Alistair is fine,” he said absentmindedly, the title continuing to trip him up more than his clumsy feel or the weight in his arms ever could. 

“The queen told me the same thing.” the girl didn’t seem to be directly talking to him, but instead as an aside to herself, and as he teetered back towards the desk that he could no longer see, but nonetheless as the vellum and leatherbound books hit the desk with a resounding  _ thump _ he still turned about with a hummed, “Pardon?” 

Jerking as if startled, the way her expression changed reminding him horribly like a startled fawn, the girl cleared her throat, smoothing her hands across the apron she wore. “The queen, she always harped on me to call her Baraneth, not any fancy title or anything, before I finally picked up on it. The two of you continue to be quite the pair...” Clapping her hands together uncomfortably, she gestured towards the books. “Regardless--I was told to drop those off. So far as I understand they’re meant to be helpful for the coronation.” 

“Right,” Looked balefully over at the stack, Alistair could practically see the hours of his day withering away before his eyes. “Helpful, I’m sure. Thank you…?” 

“Mara,” the girl supplied with a little curtsey. “I believe I am also meant to inform you that you’ll be called upon later for some fittings for the coronation.” 

Just what he wanted, more fittings; he practically had to bite back the aggrieved sigh buildings in his throat. He settled instead for crossing his arms over his chest, hoping it didn’t look too much like a frustrated boy one wrong word away from a tantrum.  “Thank you. Should I inform Baraneth of any appointments?” 

“No, I will inform Baraneth when I see her that I’ll be altering her court dress for the occasion.” Mara’s smile was near cheeky and it became clear as day why his wife had taken such a liking to the Highever girl. “The line is passing from Theirin to Theirin, Cailin--rest easy his soul--to you. There’s a degree of extra formality that comes with him being the ruler coming in by blood.” 

Already backing out of the door, Mara’s grin was in full sight. “I do believe the lady of the kingdom lucked out; she gets a lovely dress and you get musty old garments. Good day, my lord.”

“Exactly what I’ve been dying to have,” Alistair deadpanned to the empty room, nose wrinkling at the thought of garments pulled out of trunks twice his age, never washed to preserve their holiness, worn only once every seventy years. While he didn’t exactly consider himself a clothing conessier based in vanity, he did prefer to leave the dust and must away when he could manage. 

“And exactly how I wanted to spend today,” walking over to his desk, he ran his hand over the cover of the first leather bound tome. “‘A full transcription regaling the coronation of Cailin Theirin’...a bit of light reading I suppose.” 

The tome thumped unhappily on his desk as he pulled the one beneath it, smoothing the dust off of the cover. He sank down into the desk chair, smoothing a hand over the lower half of his face. “‘The Courtly Conduct of a Coronated Ruler’ compiled by Asafora Derish...Maker’s breath how useful can that be?” 

Denoting the usefulness of the tomes he had been given, perhaps, was not wise. Wonderfully useful was the information contained inside of them, certainly, but the density in which it was packed felt more like slogging through waist deep waters in a post-spring thaw current than reading a book. Rules about this, rules about that, words to be said here and there and on cue and off cue. 

Alistair filled a page of vellum in his slanted, quick handwriting and had another drying off to the side when Baraneth swept back into their room. One sideways look at her stormy expression had concern flaring enough for him to push aside his books and writing utensils, nearly knocking over an inkwell. 

Two tattered sheets of vellum were clenched tightly in her hand, buckling beneath her nails. “What did Ru have to say?” 

“What didn’t she have to say?” Baraneth sank onto the cushions adorning a window alcove beside the desk. “But to start, there was a conspiracy in Amaranthine against Ruinel, led by Bann Esmerelle. Effective now, Ru has found herself Arlessa of Amaranthine.” 

“A  _ conspiracy?  _ Is that what held Ruinel away for so long? The poor girl looked like she’d ridden like a bat out of hell when she finally arrived.” Alistair braced his forearm against the desk, as though ready to push himself to his feet at a moment’s notice. The calm in Baraneth’s voice was deceptive, there was a tense energy about her that rang the same alarms in his head as before a battle. Whatever she had heard, it couldn’t have been good. 

“Among other things.” Her eyes darted about the room, her words brisk and her mind not focused here. “We have need to write to the dwarves of Orzammar and the elven clans surrounded Amaranthine, or perhaps Sabrae so we can guarantee our message is delivered…”

Where the dwarves of Orzammar fit and the elven clans fit into a conspiracy against the Grey Wardens was beyond Alistair, unless the alliance they had made during the Blight had broken and gone rotten so quickly. “Alright, but dwarves, elves? I don’t follow, Bara.” 

“Four men in Amaranthine tressed up and cut an elven child like a butcher does venison; the elven clans are isolated and retreating because of it and ill sentiments are only rising towards the elves in the northern country. And the dwarves simply have land to claim now.”

Voice sharp, taunt with what sounded like a disguised and frustrated ‘keep up’, Baraneth stood abruptly, pressing on while he was still taking in the short but evoking explanation of the Dalish. “Sentient darkspawn took root in Amaranthine, led under a creature called the Architect that wished to end all the Old Gods to give Darkspawn freedom. The former has since been taken care of and the darkspawn have returned to their tunnels.”

The breakneck speed of her explanation did not allow for Alistair to get a question edgewise, no matter how many sprung into his mind at her words. Should they not be more concerned about such darkspawn than the disregard she seemed to have? He didn’t get the chance to ask, 

“But that isn’t important currently, I can explain it all in full if you wish, though the Commander’s explanation was rather fixated on Grey Warden matters and matters of the Fade, or Ruinel’s report from Amaranthine will be arriving within the week. Our more pressing issue is this conspiracy.” 

“As you’ve first mentioned.” Alistair said curiously, following Baraneth’s path as she began to pace back and forth, brows drawn tight. She brandished the vellum in her hand like a sword. 

“Letters between Howe and his general in the days before...well,” turning on her heel she threw the letters into the fire, where the flames blackened the edges and scorched the words to ash hungrily. “I thought we’d dealt with Howe when we left him on the ground, but apparently we aren’t so lucky. Esmerelle was a supporter of Howe and had others backing her. A conspiracy, led by one of  _ our  _ Bannorn. They attempted to kill Ruinel and others within the Keep.”

If he were not already reeling from the news of the darkspawn and the elves perhaps he would have been more taken aback to hear the nature of the conspiracy. Or perhaps if the politicla climate Loghain had set had not dulled his ability to see such things as anomalies. 

Gathering his wits about them he stood, tentatively saying with the trails of racing thoughts he could capture, 

“Ruinel handled it, we don’t know that it wasn’t just an isolated instance. We don’t have reasonable suspicion to believe that that carries over into any other minds.” 

Her pacing stuttered, her head whipping over to catch him in a disbelieving look. “What’s to keep such a conspiracy from turning to us next? Corrupting the Bannorn at large? We already lost Lendon, a supporter of Loghain, and now Esmerelle, a supporter of Howe.  _ Something  _ needs to be done to cull those rampant, threatening murmurs or else our entire system will turn inside out before we even take lead of it!” 

“Bara, I think you are overthinking this information far too much; we have no reasonable suspicion that this is occurring on a larger scale.” 

“Are you suggesting that this is not a threat we should be concerned with?” her voice went deadly quiet. 

“I’m suggesting that you’ve taken this information far too out of proportion for what we know and that you are frightened that you don’t have an immediate solution-” 

Rankled, Baraneth raised her voice. “I don’t--” 

Not to be stopped, he pressed on, holding up a hand that she met with a furious snapping closed to her jaw and a glare sharp enough to rival a sharpened sword. “And I’m suggesting that you lost everything because of the Howes and now the murmurings of their supporters are just as personal as they are political. Now you’re afraid that there is going to be a repeat of Highever, or perhaps a larger Amaranthine conspiracy.” 

“Because there  _ could be _ !” Baraneth cut in before her eyes widened and Alistair knew that he’d hit the mark exactly, even if she herself didn’t want to admit it. “But that isn’t what the issue is. I’m not paranoid of that.” 

“I didn’t say anything about paranoia.” he soothed, watching her eyes widen fractionally again before narrowing. “I said you were  _ afraid _ . Having a nightmare about something is not the same as locking yourself away to avoid it and the same applies here.” 

When she said nothing, instead of heaving a great breath and keeping intense blue eyes on him, he continued.  

“There is opposition against everyone in power, that’s just the reality we live in, we can’t please everyone.” Alistair’s voice held an attempt at placating. “Even Cailin had opposition--” 

If he realized his mistake in mentioning Cailin--and from the way his eyes widened fractionally he did--Baraneth beat him to it faster than he could hope to rectify his error. 

“Cailin was killed!” she hissed. “Left to the darkspawn by his most trusted adviser. We have gained our position in the ashes of a conspiracy and we could just as easily lose it in another. And while I don’t give a damn about our titles, in this world losing them could very well mean losing our lives alongside.” 

_ Baraneth, _ his mind lamented, itching to give audible voice.  _ What has you so worried? It’s unlike you.  _

But really, was it a question? She made it plain what had snagged her in Ruinel’s report. She’d been able to think of a response to each problem put in front of her he was sure of it, already she would be thinking of the words she would write to the elves the dwarves, the placating offerings she could make to the men of Amaranthine. Solutions to those troubles came like second nature to her, just as the Landsmeet had and tensions in Edgehall had. 

Conspiracies linked back to Howe and his men he should have known would catch her, throw her off guard. It wasn’t a paranoia about their status, she’d made that crystal clear, but the issue didn’t lay in their status. It lay in the memories she clung to, or perhaps were mired in. Ones that she hadn’t been able to shake even after returning to Highever and trying to set them free. 

It was no help that such troubles in the northern arling came swift like a returning high tide with little break. 

“I understand…but I truly think we need to take a moment and look at what our Bannorn has truly shown us, not what could be lurking in the shadows.” As she remained nonplussed, shifting her weight from foot to foot, his shoulders rose and fell with careful consideration of his next words. “It would be in our best interests to look into those associated with Amaranthine and widen our assumptions from there.” 

He could see her wavering, ever so close to allowing herself to be helped down from the ledge she’d over thought herself onto when the door clattered against its adjacent wall. Baraneth jumped, a hand flying for a sword on a belt that wasn’t fastened around her waist and her expression darkened to a close. 

Whipping around, Alistair came face to face with Arl Eamon and the reprimand for such a rude entry died in his throat at the frustrated look sent his way. “Alistair, you were expected in the tailor’s quarters several minutes ago, did no one inform you?” 

In fact, no one had come to inform him when he was or wasn’t needed, but that was a point he thought better of contending. “Baraneth and I were just in the middle of dissecting the Warden Commander’s words.” 

“Words?” Eamon looked between the two. “If she gave a summary of what kept her away in Amaranthine then it should have been done in front of the Bannorn properly.” 

“It was not a full summary,” Baraneth cut in tiredly, without the edge she usually spoke to Eamon with. A blatant stretch of the truth, but when she met Alistair’s eyes it was with a plea to not push their friend beneath the rolling carriage. “Her full report can only be sent by raven to us, she simply wanted to inform us of certain pivotal events.” 

Relinquishing her spot near the desk, she pushed past Eamon,, nudging her shoulder against Alistair’s with a backward glance stating that their discussion wasn’t over. “If you are pulling Alistair away then I believe Mara must be searching for me.” 

“I’m sure you’ll be able to find her in her usual haunts.” Eamon agreed, expression impassive as the queen disappeared around the corner. The look he turned on Alistair was dissecting, clinical. “What are the two of you hiding?” 

Hiding was a cruel word to assign in response to Eamon’s snooping and rude entry and Alistair couldn’t restrain a scoff. “Hiding? We’re hardly ‘hiding’ anything. Ruinel--the Warden Commander--’s information was simply disconcerting.” 

In the hallway their voices carried, bouncing from stone floor to ceiling and back again around them. Still stuck on Baraneth’s words, he hummed in thought. “I need you get me a raven to send to Harrowmont in Orzammar and the Keeper Marethari? I have need to send word to both.” 

Eamon strode to keep up with Alistair’s long legged steps, white brows raising. “And why would you need to get into contact so suddenly?” 

“Ah…” Alistiar’s confident tone faltered. “The Warden Commander’s reports of what happened in Amaranthine raise some pressing concerns that cannot wait.” 

“Would it not be prudent to wait--”

It was as though he hadn’t spoken at all. It did no good if he was simply speaking just to hear his own voice, he could do that well enough in an empty room. His tone sharpened.“It  _ cannot  _ wait Eamon, that wasn’t a suggestion.” 

The pause between them was bloated, displeased at most, surprised at least. “Very well, I will send for the ravens while you are preoccupied.” 

He hoped the small, relieved noise that escaped him was inaudible. “Thank you. I’m sure we will keep you informed of the situation.” 

* * *

 

The room he walked into was one of the many side studies of the estate converted for the occasion--littered with tailoring supplies, draped with fabrics, and swarming with three tailors from the city proper. 

“My lord,” they seemed to speak with one voice at first, bowing low with a practiced unison, before one stepped forward. A woman not much older than him or Baraneth, pointed ears hung with delicate chained piercings. “I’m Nessie and the other two are Timothy and Halbert. I don’t believe we met during the preparations for the wedding.” 

As her counterparts gave secondary bows she added, “I hope we didn’t strip you from anything too important.” 

While they had, it was hardly their fault that their scheduling had fallen into conflict with a tiff over the affairs of state. He wasn’t going to  _ tell  _ them that, that would only make whatever ordeal they had to go through all the more awkward. 

“No, nothing too nation ending I assure you.” Alistair looked at the mess of tools, pressing his lips together as he tried to puzzle together exactly what the purpose the wealth of materials served. “Though I’m not keen on why I’m required--I thought my measurements were kept from the wedding?” 

He’d certainly hope they were, while the ceremonial armor fittings had been nothing unfamiliar, making the tunics and bits beneath the armor had been fussed over for enough hours that it seemed a waste if they weren’t scratched down on some manner of scrap paper. 

 “They are, but there are many layers that go into your coronation ceremony and while we’ve already started making most of them there are two that we just need to make simple alterations to.” 

While he never claimed to be a tailor in the slightest it seemed awfully quick to already have garments done in full, not when they still had a fortnight's respite before the coronation. “Already?” 

The look shared between the tailors was two parts amused one part sympathetic. “Well, they haven’t been made from scratch persay.” 

Halbert, who couldn’t have been older than fifteen or sixteen, hummed. “They’re the two garments that we simply alter from monarch to monarch.” 

_ Oh.  _ Well that would certainly explain it and while the three pulled two garments from the pile--a long overcoat of gold embroidered with dark forms of mabari hounds and a sweeping mantle in scarlet, golden threaded mabari snarling in the corners--all Alistair could imagine was the many years those pieces had collected dust in a box somewhere.  _ Lovely _ . 

“So that’s been…” 

“Worn by Cailin and Maric before him and so on and so forth? Precisely.” 

Alistair huffed out a breath, shoulders rolling forward. There was something mildly disconcerting about sliding on something that both his dead half brother and father had worn, if even just for ceremony, let alone the heavyweight of all the years attached to it. “Very well.” 

The fabric rustled as he was carried over to him and practically thrown over his head, awkward wriggling commencing to get the oddly sized bits and pieces where they belonged. The hem sat comically short above his ankles, the spots along the shoulders where it had been taken in one wrong move away from popping seams. 

“Well this is already going well.” he commented unhelpfully. 

“Not unfixable, my lord, it will only take a moment to adjust.” Waving about a pair of tailor’s scissors like weaponry, Nessie’s tone was bright.

In truth it did not take long to alter two garment, a snip here, a stitch there and only one instance of mild panic when a wrong seam was cut. In the end, tied about the waist with a weapon’s belt, the gold tunic looked less like a silken potato sack and closer to that of a very outdated overgarment and the mantle no longer was a long shawl but instead reached the ground in the fashion it was meant to. Which, Alistair supposed, marked some form of improvement. 

“And is Baraneth being coerced into garments thrice our age?” tone kept light, he was quite pleased when at least Nessie reciprocated with a snorted laugh. 

“Would it appease the king to say yes?” from the mirror he stood in front of, he saw her eyes dart up. “Unfortunately for you, fortunately for the queen, only one of her garments is old and it’s an anointing gown of her own that was used by the previous queen-consort.” 

So Mara had been correct then in both of her smug assumptions before she’d made herself scarce. He wasn’t sure whether to scoff at the teasing made of his wardrobe or laugh at the absurdity of his position. 

“I’ll consider the head of state appeased, if only because you lot seem so amused by this situation.” he joked, much to the snickering of the tailors before they settled back into a concentrated silence.

Without much hassle to go through the meeting was relatively short, a short period where he could’ve been digging through more of the work piling up for the coronation, but it did offer a short respite to let his mind wander. It wandered about in circles, wavering around the information Ruinel had offered and trying to make sense of what they needed to do. 

Baraneth’s explanation hadn’t been the most organized and didn’t help matters, but without the tension roiling off of her the information was at least easier to compartmentalize, even if he truly could use her knack for dissecting greater situations for the most important parts. 

Even by the end of it, stripped of the old robes and practically shoved out the door with nary a ‘good day’, he’d not fully wrapped his head around solutions to the troubles that faced them from their most northeastern arling but at the very least his mind was quieter than he had left it. 

* * *

 

“Alistair?” he glanced up from the books he’d buried himself back into--this time in one of the courtyards to at the very least not be stifled among the stone walls, when Baraneth peeked her head around the corner. 

She almost looked bashful, scuffing her booted toe along the ground and looking up at him from beneath her lashes. In a sweat darkened blouse and trousers, she must have just come recently from the training grounds. Of course he should’ve thought to look there if he’d found need of her--nothing soothed the soul of a restless warrior more than beating their troubles out on a straw dummy. 

“Can I talk to you?” 

Placing down the quill whose long try tip he’d been tapping absentmindedly into the vellum, he turned in his chair to look at her fully. “Of course…” the affirmation sounded strange in his mouth, whatever tension left between them wandering in confusion. Telling her to come forward like some manner of staff member or subject felt wrong. 

Dipping her head, she padded over to the table and set down folded sheets of vellum, gesturing for him to read as she drew back her hand. “I had some thoughts on what to say to Harrowmont and Marathari. They’re just scratched out ideas.” 

“Diplomatic endeavor to Kal’Hirol or to Orzammar proper to officially sign the land back to the dwarves…” Alistair read, scanning through the lines of her neat script. If it was her idea of a scratched out idea or a rough draft letter, it made his final pieces look like child’s fantasy play. “Word to the elves asking what we can do to bolster their confidence in us and a decree in Amaranthine that that nature of barbaric behavior won’t stand...this all sounds well, sound.” 

“I am most confident on Kal’Hirol, that’s undisputed. Amaranthine is much thinner ice to walk on.” Baraneth traced her fingers across the rough hewn stone table, looking at him from the corner of her eye. “But I’m really not here for the letters.” 

“You don’t need a reason to be here,” Alistair started to say, startling at the phrase before being shushed by Baraneth’s affectionately exasperated look.  At the very least warmth had returned back to her eyes, a far cry from the icy worry and frustration that had simmered there earlier. 

“Poor phrasing. I do not  _ need  _ a reason to be here, but I  _ have  _ a reason.” after wavering for several beats her expression scrunched like she was preparing to pull off a bandage. “I was out of line earlier, I wasn’t thinking and even worse I wasn’t listening. It doesn’t do us any good when talking to a wall would be easier than talking to me.” 

She sighed, giving the barest shake of her head and he had the good sense to keep quiet and let her speak. She seemed to be thinking as she spoke, the gears turning in her mind with each sentence.  “You are right, I latched onto conspiracy, only seeing what happened in Highever and not seeing the proof--or lack thereof. And while I still can’t truly see beyond that, it did no good to hide that fact.” 

He held out his hand to her, wiggling his fingers until she puffed out a sigh with a roll of her eyes to the sky and closed the distance between them, twining their fingers together. “It’s alright Bara, it was a lot to be hit by.” 

Especially after the whirlwind that had been their wedding planning and the planning that was going into the coronation, but he kept that to himself. “So long as we can at least try and look at it again...perhaps a bit more thoroughly?” 

For a moment her fingers twitched in his, curling and uncurling before she dipped her head with a soft exhalation. “I think we can.”

“Good,” Relief washed over him when she didn’t pull away. “We can send out the ravens tonight or perhaps tomorrow....think more on the matter of the Bannorn and save that decision until after the coronation?” 

Her silence was longer, uncertain, before she gave another slight nod, voice subdued. “That will probably be best.” As if shaking off whatever thoughts dampened her spirits, she took another careful step closer and leaned against his shoulder, peering down at the mess he’d made of the table. “What’s this?” 

Slipping an idle arm around her waist, Alistair rifled through the papers and grazed his fingers across the pages of the book he had left splayed open in a spanning gesture. “I believe this is from ‘The Courtly Conduct of a Coronated Ruler’, your ever present lady in waiting dumped it and a small forest’s worth of books on me earlier.” 

“The Courtly Conduct...that leaves much in question of its use.” Baraneth protested. “And Mara isn’t my ‘lady in waiting’, she’s a friend and works elsewhere within the estate.” 

Pleased to at least have her indignance returned in place of a shielded quiet, Alistair grinned. “It’s been quite useful!” he hefted it up, holding it out to her. “You won’t know until you read it!” 

“I’d rather not,” hedging her reply, she plucked up one of his sheets of notes, scanning through it with an increasingly concerned look. “Is this all expectations for us?” 

“To an extent,” At his affirmation, her expression shifted between interest as she scanned the old coronation proceedings and a deepening furrow in her brow at the sheer volume of information. “You might want to sit down with me for a bit, there’s a lot to cover.” 

“All before coronation day?” At his pointed look, Baraneth grumbled, tugging the adjacent chair at the table over to plop down next to him, pressed shoulder to shoulder. At the very least her tone was lighter, the way she carried herself less weighted. “Maker’s breath…” 

With a chuckle he leaned over, pressing a kiss to the side of her head before picking up his writing utensil of choice once again. “It’ll be more fun this way at the very least, I swear it.” 

They buried themselves in work for the coronation, drowning out Amaranthine until they were called to the rookery and two rolled up letters were sealed and tied to glossy ravens’ legs. 

As the ravens took flight, shining wings beating the air as they soared above Denerim, they shared a look that spoke of ill feelings and suppressed worry. 

Was this how it was going to be from now on, questioning each decision no matter how much they weighed it? Needing to take the step off the edge and damn the consequences? 

From the shaken way Baraneth turned away from the rookery, hand twined tightly with his, reality was a crier and it’s news did not sit easily. Inching ever closer to the truth of their position, reality’s face became less and less kind. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> UPDATE: I am going to try and maintain an update schedule for the next few chapters at *least*:
> 
> MONDAYS: a snippet preview over on my tumblr (@ captainderyn)  
> FRIDAYS: the chapter will go live
> 
> Thank you all for reading and thank you especially to my beta Anchanted_One for helping to keep this story running! Let me know what you all think of the trouble brewing thanks to Amaranthine; next week we'll be tackling the coronation! (finally lmao)


	10. Chapter Eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Weeks--or perhaps months--of preparation come to a head for Baraneth and Alistair as coronation day blooms strong across Denerim.

**_9:32 Dragon_ **

**Alistair**

After today, Alistair never wanted to set foot within the royal Chantry, with its sweeping roof and blinding stained glass windows, ever again. He had been under the scrutiny of the Maker, the Chantry officials, and his people far more in the past few weeks than in his entire twenty-two years and if he had any say in the matter he’d rather like to step back from the attention. 

Already the heavy weight of the surcoat he had been buttoned and tied into suffocated him, the weight of a robe heavy across his shoulders with fur itching against his neck as it dragged down to the ground. The Litany of the Maker beat around him in haunting tones from those who proceeded in front of him into the royal Chantry, deep and reverberating. 

It became harder and harder to tell his feet ‘ _ forward’ _ , nerves putting weights in the bottoms of his boots. Today marked the culmination of what neared a year’s worth of work, preparation, and travel. Should he not be excited to put behind the six grueling months of the tour and the weeks of preparation for the wedding that had been more pomp and circumstance than necessity? Now they would be able to truly dig into their plans, start to do their jobs other than sitting around--or, in some cases, riding around--for everyone to look at and admire. Baraneth was practically vibrating in enthusiasm at the prospect whenever it came up, but this was her realm of comfort; Alistair still felt as though he was inching along a thin pathway, steep slopes falling away on either side waiting to pull him down should he slip and err. 

It didn’t matter if there had been countless reassurances that he was allowed to learn, that he didn’t need to have everything understood all at once; the coronation felt too real, too final. As though the formalities of today would tear away his facade of confidence to reveal a boy simply playing king, with a wooden sword and crown and a blanket for a cape. 

Even within the Chantry itself was quiet except for the song drifting through it, its inhabitants respectfully silent, though it set his teeth on edge and a fresh fire of nerves shooting through his body. If only Baraneth could be at his side, then perhaps he wouldn’t be wavering like a boat at sea in a storm. She grounded him here, kept him outside of his own mind, a little bit of familiarity and rightness even just in her presence at his side. But she had already marched in at the forefront of the Bannorn and sat primly on a simple wooden chair on the dais to the left of where he himself would sit. Their people had cheered for her along the streets, those among the nobility and the Bannorn who had allied themselves closely with the Couslands joining in as she had strut into the hall as though she was born to walk that path. Perhaps they had cheered for him too; the walk into the Chantry was a blur behind his eyes and every sound seemed to come a great distance away. From behind the stern faced Chantry mother’s back she offered him a smile before miming taking a deep breath, holding his gaze with hers as he climbed the steps. 

“Sirs and ladies,” the Chantry mother bellowed across the hall, voice richeting as Alistair sank cautiously into the stiff-backed chair he was gestured to. He prayed that he wouldn’t do something silly, like tip over, or miss the middle of the chair, or somehow rip the robes that had he had been poked over and over again to fit like a second, royal, skin. “I here present unto you Alistair Theirin, your undoubted King and Baraneth Theirin, your undoubted Queen. All who are here today come to pledge their services and homage to you,” she looked to them, trapping them in her intense gaze. Part of him squirmed, wanting to sink lower in his chair as if he was still a boy with the Templars having been caught doing something wrong. “Are you willing to do the same for your people?” 

There was no reason for these nerves, no reason he needed to clear his throat; they’d gone through everything before today. Near every word he spoke had been handed to him, every action was planned ahead and choreographed. Even still is voice quivered when he spoke and from the corner of his eye he could see Baraneth trembling before she knotted her hands in her lap. “I do so swear.” 

“Will you solemnly promise and swear to govern the Peoples of Ferelden according to the respective laws and customs of the Bannorn and the people?”

“I solemnly promise to do so,” Even with the hours he had poured through the transcriptions of past coronations sitting in his mind, the words felt like they were reaching him from deep underwater. Baraneth’s voice echoed behind his, assured and bolstering his own. 

“Will you to your power cause Law and Justice, in Mercy, to be executed in all your judgments?”

“I will.”

Sitting on the chair, with the Chantry mother’s eyes fixed on him and the audience of his people staring raptly at him, it was like he was being interrogated for some crime he did not commit. Perhaps he would have been better off facing the scaffolds rather than the judgement of his people, it would have been quicker and kinder.

“Will you to the utmost of your power maintain the Laws of the Maker? Will you through the power granted to you, vow to protect your people and do for them whatever may be required?” 

He gave a shaky nod, but when he spoke he managed to steady his voice, finding strength in conviction that he  _ would  _ do all that he could for the people of Ferleden...the conviction that that in itself was why he had taken this position. “All this I promise to do. The things which I have here promised, I will perform, and keep. So help me, Maker.”

“So help me, Maker.” Baraneth’s final repetition rang out and if there weren’t such a distance between them he would’ve reached out just to brush his fingertips across hers. Surely that was the hard part, facing the barrage of questions and promises they were tasked to upheld to Ferelden?

With a lifting of her hand the Chantry mother gestured from him to stand and when he did the crimson cloak around his shoulders was pulled away by the royal guards in their polished armor that sparked silver from the corner of his eye. When Alistair dared a glance to his right, the heavy cloak was being slid from the queen-to-be’s shoulders as well; as though he was looking through a distorted mirror, or perhaps like they were two marionette puppets going through the motions. 

Though he just left a chair, a perfectly fine chair if he had to comment, he was led to another, this one imposing in rich wood trimmed with gleaming bronze, snarling mabari statutes afixed to its base. Underneath its base sat a worn stone slab, carved with long lost words long since faded to mere indents. 

As soon as he lowered himself into the chair, everything still quiet except for the creaking wood and the exhalations of all in the hall in a way that made his skin crawl a golden cloth enveloped his head, held by the very same royal guard that were dutifully impassive. He squeezed his eyes closed, fingers working open and closed on the rests of the chair. An unhelpful voice in the back of his head suggested that perhaps that was how it would end--smothered by a golden cloth in front of every member of the Ferelden nobility that could be bothered to show up. It would at the very least make a good tale and was an entertaining, if slightly horrifying thought, in the moment.

Somewhere in front of him liquid sloshed  in a container and despite himself he twitched when the cool liquid--oil he now remembered vaguely from the pages upon pages he had forced his eyes to scour through--spread cool across his hands then his tunic; his heart and head following his hands. 

Just as quickly as it had suffocated him the golden sheet was pulled away and he blinked his eyes open against the brilliant sunlight streaming multi-colored through the windows. 

He was brought to his feet, a larger, musty smelling tunic stuffed up his arms and clasped around his neck and another, thicker and golden colored vestment thrown on over at for good measure. Though the undertunic smelled of dust and  _ old  _ he steeled himself, stamping out the urge to pinch his nose and curl his lip and banishing the thought that the very robe thar adorned him had been worn by many before him and had probably never seen a wash basin. 

Despite the fact that he had just sat down and been uphended from the very same chair he was deposited back in the golden backed chair. While he was thoroughly ruffled by being thrown about like a sack it seemed mere tradition for everyone watching. He wondered if they were truly watching, or if those with the attention most rapt on him were really staring at the intricate woodwork behind him with unseeing eyes, or perhaps imagining the feast set for the evening or their beds back home. He couldn’t say he would blame them. 

A scepter was handed to him, a heavy carved rod topped with an intricately designed head that weighed in his hand much the same way a sword did. The crown weighed heavy on his head, seeming to be trying to push him into the ground as it was placed. Against the weight of the crown he was asked to stand and he drew himself up to his full height, squaring his shoulders with a heavy breath. 

A touch to his elbow was all Baraneth offered when she stepped up alongside him, now invested in a white shawl, darkened in the same places he too had been anointed, over her dress, crowned in a diadem wrought of gold, pearl, and ruby. The corners of her lips quirked up as her eyes flit over to his, shining with the pride she couldn’t say aloud. It was intoxicating, the pride that she wore without shame for the position they had worked for, the confidence which she carried herself where the crown sat on her head like it belonged there and the people roared their blessings and praise to her. 

The crowd stirred from their silence as if broken out from a trance, crying out; 

“Maker save the king and queen!” three times over before dissolving into wordless cheer. 

As the cheers died down, the Chantry woman crossed her hands in front of her after gesturing for the nobles to shuffle from their seats. “With your new regents thus sworn in it comes time for you to swear fealty to your new lords. Lords and ladies, if you may come forward.” 

The first to step forward was a known face, Teagan, looking worn but pleased as he looked upon them and took a knee. 

"I, Teagan Guerrin., Arl of Redcliffe, do swear to myself and my arling of life and limb, and of earthly worship to you; and faith and truth I will bear for you, to live and die should the need arise. So help me Maker."

It proceeded much the same, from lords and ladies to banns and arls, those under Ferelden’s borders swore loyalty to their Crown. Some did it reverently, swearing their oaths like they were swearing to the Maker himself. Some swore it like it was a bad taste in their mouth, with curled lips and spitting tones.

Arl Kendells looked as though he had to drag the words from his throat like knives, eyes fixed sternly upon the stone beneath his knee and fingers knotted into fits at his sides. Those in his circle all held the same bitter curl in their lip. 

 From the corner of his eye he watched Baraneth’s eyes narrow at each, making notes just as he was, suspicion from Ruinel’s account of Amaranthine seething just below the surface.The nobles who bore them no friendship would make themselves known soon enough when charging them with a knife.

Ruinel herself was the last to come forward of the northern provinces. Dressed once again in full Grey Warden regalia she dropped low to one knee before them, bowing her head for a moment before meeting their eyes with conviction. “I, Ruinel Surana, Arlessa of Amaranthine and Commander of the Grey swear to be an extension of your will in the north and your defense, so long as I can rightly swear loyalty by you and your crown. Long live the king and queen.”

 As she filed back, falling into line with the remainder of the Bannorn that stood in rows on either side of the main aisleway, Alistair stepped forward. His voice sounded loud in his own ears, reverberating in the quiet in such a grand hall. “Just you as you swear your fealty to us, we swear our fealty to you, as rulers of Ferelden, to uphold the promises we’ve made to you.”  

With the ceremony concluded the spark of dramatic flair had all but fizzled out. Holding the jewels of the state several of the Denerim’s royal guard marched out of the hall, followed by Alistair who finally, blessedly, could walk with Baraneth once more, arm in arm as the people around them celebrated in a mass not unlike the undulating sea. The Ferelden anthem roared around him and he glanced over at Baraneth with a tentative smile. Her stoic expression fractured and then crumbled entirely and she smiled at him in earnest.

 He had no concerns at how the people adored her, or to how she would take to the duties of the Crown. All the worry he had pointed towards him and while he knew that she would be by his side for the entirety of it he dreaded the days when he would be stuck swimming on his own. For nothing terrified him more than that. His people may be singing his praises now, singing in the  joy of a new king and a fresh start, but he did not know how that would last if he made an error, small or large. 

Denerim’s streets were alive with celebration from the Chantry to the gates of the royal palace even as the sky grew dark--the ceremony was once again no short matter; he was slowly realizing that any affair of the state required leaving your entire day free--, the strains of the national anthem following them throughout the streets. Banners bearing the Theirin lions waved among the groups of people and scattered pockets of people the banners of the other bannorns flew: the sun and diamonds of Denerim, the castle tower of Redcliffe, even a few laurel branches of the Cousland family were flying. Scattered among the brightly colored bannorn and family heraldry a few navy banners blazing with the white griffons of the Grey Wardens drifted in the breeze. 

But now, through the streets, it wasn’t simply the Theirin scarlet breaking through the crowd, it was the navy, golds and yellows, reds and whites, every color marching along like a glistening sea towards the royal palace. Bannorn and Crown united as one front, finally. 

While the wedding had been reverence and awe, the coronation was like a new birth of Ferelden, raucous celebration for leaving a time of darkness and confusion behind. 

* * *

 

The grand dining hall, reserved only for special occasions, was set for the grandest taste of even the most picky nobles tonight. While they wedding feast had been thankfully outdoors in the gardens where a simple breeze had cooled the air, it was already stifling within the hall as all the nobles settled in, chattering amongst themselves. The high windows thrown open did nothing to offset the stagnant air. 

If they’d thought they’d escaped the last of the ceremony they were sorely mistaken; through the doors the captain of the royal guard strode in, in full plate armor, a gleaming sword in his hand. He approached the head of the table, standing to Alistair’s left and facing the crowd.

“Are there any who oppose the Crown?” he bellowed, his voice tinny in his helm even as the soft   _ shnk _ of his sword being drawn was heard. 

Now was a poor time to ask, Alistair thought, running his finger along the grain of the table in a minute expending of nerves. What were they to do if they did oppose the Crown? Kick them out so soon after coronation? Kill them? The last one was a far less pleasant thought, calling back uncomfortably to Baraneth’s outburst around the conspiracy, and he forced his attention unwaveringly onto the guard captain. 

“Nay!” Called back the crowd, murmurs of less enthusiasm drowning in the sea of voices around them and the knight-captain undid his gauntlet, throwing it down upon the table before Baraneth and Alistair. “Long live the Crown!” 

They lifted their drinks, sharing a passing look at the dissent, before drinking to the prosperity of their country, of their people, of themselves, all to the uproar of their subjects before Alistair ceremoniously passed his flagon to the guard captain, who drew his helm off and tossed it aside and took a long swig before knocking it down on the table. The drink sploshed over the edge, pattering down onto the table. 

“To the Crown!” he bellowed once more, and their subjects bellowed it back before they dug into the glorious feast before them.  

* * *

  
  


As the feast began to wind down, each and every person stuffing themselves with as much of the fancy foods so rarely cooked in the royal kitchens for the masses, small groups were beginning to form at the tables as conversation eased from rigid propriety to amiable discussion.  

“Oh! I have a story!” Ruinel all but cackled. Despite holding the title of arlessa she was wearing her full Warden Commander regalia, her sister who had been darting in and out of the feast hall dressed in her Grey Warden armor as well. “During the Blight I thought I was quite infatuated with our very own Cousland queen for quite a bit. Emphasis on the thought. I am very much happy just being her friend and she seems quite happy with a certain king.” She shrugged chuckling to herself and cutting her eyes over to Baraneth, who had a brilliant red blush rising hot on her cheeks.

 “What can I say, she’s a stunning woman. Watch her test the weight and balance of swords and shields in a sparring match and you’d fancy yourself infatuated at the least too.” She made a soft noise in the back of her throat before shaking her head with a soft laugh, clearly amused with herself if no one else was before sighing dreamily, eyes twinkling with mischief. “Our Cousland Queen, our  _ warrior  _ Queen.”

“I would have to agree with the Commander’s sentiment. Even if I now wonder if I need to engage in an honor duel. ” Alistair said to a chorus of laughter, leaning back in his chair even while Baraneth shot him a suspicious look. “Though if any others share similar thoughts make it known now, it may be treason on the state level.”

More raucous laughter broke out at that and Baraneth joined in, even if she placed her blissfully cool hands over her flaming cheeks. “Please no honor duels in the courtyard.” she managed. “No accusations of treason on our first day.” 

When he slid his arm around her shoulders she leaned into it, head resting comfortably in the junction between his neck and shoulder, but she was restless. He could feel it in the way she held herself, taunt as a bow string even in such a falsely relaxed state. They’d been in this situation too many times for her tastes--and for his, if only he were bolder and willing to state the fact--and boredom was running strong. 

“I believe the long day and drink are getting to me.” Baraneth finally said airly, pushing herself to her feet and inclining her head to the nobility surrounding them. “I should bid you all a good night and merry celebration--the taps will not close just because I depart.” 

Though he didn’t need the pointed look sent his way, it got her meaning across tenfold as she offered a little wave to the group and made towards the grand hall’s thrown open doors. “I should go after her, make sure she makes it back safely if she feels under the weather.” he said quickly, rocking to his feet and pushing his chair back. Its legs ground on the stone floor as he pushed it back in, leaning his weight on the back. “I hope you all will forgive me.” 

“We’ve spent the entire day looking at you ser,” Ruinel quipped with the grin of a long time friend knowing she could get away with something others could not. “We won’t miss you sorely if you depart early tonight.” 

“Truly, we’ve seen you enough to know your king; by now we’re most all drowning ourselves in drink and preparing for the court calling in the morn.” Afstanna Eremon leaned back in her chair, kicking her feet out in front of her with a grin and a shooing motion. “Or, with what it’s looking like, late morning.” 

Following Alfstanna’s waved hand to the round tables of laughing knight and nobility, he was inclined to agree. The merriment was rising in volume, the attention directed towards him as he stood almost none. 

“As you say,” he demurred, but offered a smile. “Good night then, enjoy your merriment and storytelling.” 

Alfstanna, one of the few aside from Ruinel still paying him any mind, raised her flagon to him with a lift of her chin. “Maker bless your kingship and the queen for surviving today. It only goes downhill from here!” 

“Uphill from here!” Ruinel corrected primly with a sideways look between the Bann and King. “The hard part of ceremony is over now.” 

That might not have been true in the slightest, the ongoing, indefinite rule of a kingdom seemed to hold more difficulty than the excruciating pomp and ceremony leading up to it. “ _ Right _ ,” Alistair let the word draw out. “We’ll let that be, I should find the queen.” 

Finding Baraneth was far easier than he would’ve thought and in fact she appeared just as suddenly as that: a thought. 

“Harrowmont has sent a return letter.” she breezed up next to him in the hall, eyes already fixed at the sealed letter with her hand deftly breaking the wax seal--blue with a wave like pattern pressed upon it--and unfolding the vellum. She must have near sprinted there and back to get to the rookery and then the hall before him. From the way her hair was beginning to loose from the pins around her temples and the slight quickness to her breath, that might just have been the case. 

A triumphant grin graced her lips and she pressed the letter into his hands, fingers already shifting to begin pulling the pins from her hair as they continued to walk.. 

“He’s agreed to our offer of Kal’Hirol quite happily,” she provided, even as Alistair read through the bold stroked lettering himself, catching the door to their quarters with his shoulder and walking in behind her. “His only request is that we show ourselves at Kal’Hirol to dedicate the land directly to Orzammar and that we place it in writing formally, lest it try to be taken away later I imagine.” 

Folding the letter back up and pressing his thumb and forefinger along the crease he followed her movements across the room, from setting down her fistful of pins to rummaging around their desk for something. With a flourish she pulled a sheet of vellum, a quill, and inkwell from a drawer and tore the sheet in half, scribbling something quickly across each. “That’s good then, that he wants the land. Even if he wants us there to sign it in properly?” 

Already she was nodding along, hair falling heavily across her shoulders and obscuring her full expression from him. “I imagine it’s just a formality and a way to insure he won’t be caught in some loophole later down the line. Besides,” she looked up. “We may have aided his ascent to the throne as Grey Wardens, but he’s no reason to trust us yet as rulers. Our position has nothing to back up our reputation outside of our own people.” 

Flurrying back over to him, shaking the twin sheets of vellum furiously as though to dry the ink, her enthusiasm was palpable, chipping away at his cautious curiosity. “This is a good thing, Amaranthine will hopefully settle without land to squabble over and we’ll prove that we want to work with the others around us, not ostracized them.”  

“Right,” he tentatively agreed, head very nearly spinning at the mention of the delicate wires of relations they had to walk. While he was still thinking of what Harrowmont entailed, Baraneth already seemed to be six steps ahead of him. “If a raven came in with Harrowmont’s letter, was there anything from Sabrae?” 

The question halted her flitting movements, halting her waving of the vellum sheets and seemingly the racing of her thoughts. To the floor her eyes dropped, then back to him, voice dropping a note. “No...Marathari hasn’t returned our letter. We should speak to Ruinel before she departs back to Amaranthine in the morning. Perhaps she can aid in both the matters of Kal’Hirol and the Dalish.” 

When his hand brushed across her shoulder as he walked behind her, Baraneth looked up, a line forming between her brows. “Where are you going?” 

Resolve settling hard as stone in him, Alistair gave a small shrug. Surely Ruinel wouldn’t mind an evening call to her quarters from old friends...and if she did, door slamming was as good a reaction as any. “Going to go talk to Ruinel? We shouldn’t have any others catching us up tonight like we might in the morning; I’d hate to miss her.” 

For a moment Baraneth waffled, rocking her weight from side to side and he wondered if he’d overstepped somehow, or perhaps taken a forward step that he shouldn’t have. After all, wasn’t it Baraneth that knew more about this than he did? Surely he couldn’t yet know better than she did...could he? 

“I’m sure Ruinel won’t mind us calling on her,” Baraneth conceded with a firm nod, linking their hands as she stepped up alongside him. “She  _ is  _ an old friend, it could very well just be a social call.” 

It was indeed, without hostility, that Ruinel opened up her door to them on their first knock. When she pulled the door open, leaning against the edge a brief look of disappointment flared across her face momentarily, almost too brief for Alistair to trust that it had been there. The elf couldn’t wrong it entirely from her voice, however. “Oh! I perhaps thought you were Leliana...well, not that you were  _ physically  _ Leliana...that would be disconcerting.” 

Her eyes flicked over Alistair and for a beat a frown passed over her face, which perhaps might have been a blow to his ego if there were any ego to bash or if it weren’t very clear that they were not who Ruinel was expecting. “Perhaps she left right after the coronation…” 

“She may have been one of the riders to slip away with the first pack of nobility.” Baraneth said softly with a wince as the younger woman seemed to wilt. 

“I’m sure it’s some important business with the Divine, I’d just hoped I would see her.” Ruinel straightened her shoulders. “No matter, something brought you here and from the uncertain look on both your faces I’m positive it isn’t just to say hello, please step in.” 

The room around them was warm as Ruinel ushered them in and shifted the door closed behind them, the fire smoldering in the hearth as if she had been waiting around and been stroking it until recently and chilly fresh air streamed in through the open windows, bringing with it the sounds of the night. For the first time in a long time--at least in Alistair’s memory--she had forgone the Warden Commander’s plate or Warden’s robes for a simple Dalish style attire, her bare feet moving almost silently around the room as she found a seat on top of the desk. 

“I don’t want to intrude, if you’d rather the night to yourself.” Baraneth hovered by the chair Ruinel was pointing her towards and the elf very near rolled her eyes. 

“I’d rather  _ not  _ the night to myself, nor with politics, but I suppose I can’t be picky. Please, tell me whatever is troubling you.” 

“It isn’t really trouble, necessarily.” Alistair settled into the rather uncomfortable, probably solely decorative, chair in the corner, pulling it out from the wall. “Rather in the positive, actually.” 

If there was a reason for him to take offense to the way Ruinel’s eyebrows shot up, he couldn’t find it. If he were in her boots he would be just as surprised to hear that they didn’t bring trouble to her. “Oh? Well, now I simply  _ have  _ to listen to you.” 

“Don’t say it like that! We try to give you good news.” Despite the faux-woundedness in her voice, Baraneth waved the letter from Harrowmont like a banner of victory. “Harrowmont is willing to take Kal’Hirol from your hands  _ and  _ is willing to accept it as positive diplomacy for both sides.” 

At the very least it was enough to get the elf to perk up, eyes alighting. “Oh! That’s wonderful!” 

“While we’ve only just received the letter I can guarantee our advisors will not be pleased with such spentenuity of planning. There’s going to be questions of going near Kal’Hirol, with the darkspawn and the possibility of cave-ins.” Letting a thoughtful silence settle, Baraneth glanced over at Alistair as if to affirm the way their advisors were surely going to dig their heels in. 

He couldn’t deny it, that was for certain and he offered the smallest of shrugs. It wasn’t as though anything they planned truly needed the Bannorn’s discretion, it was a diplomatic visit regarding Amaranthine and their coronation was no longer months or day away, but instead behind them. 

“The darkspawn are easy--first of all, there aren’t really any left where you’ll be above the surface, and I imagine you won’t be underground--but if you truly will be so worried over then I will delegate some of my Wardens to your guard for the day, they’re trained to deal with the ‘spawn.” Ruinel’s hand cut through the air as if shooing away the perceived problem before looking at them inquisitively, brown eyes dark in the lamplight. “Is that your only concern?” 

Baraneth linked her fingers together, rocking her elbows forward onto her knees. “So far as the dwarves are concerned.” 

It only took a beat for Ruinel to catch on, her ears seeming to drop along with her eyes. “The elves? Sabrae hasn’t returned your missives?” 

Watching the two of them interact in the planning was almost like trying to listen from far away...it seemed like every other idea was either understood before it could be conveyed or finished by the other within a few words. He wondered if he and Baraneth were like that in times and if it was just as frustrating to follow. 

“I don’t know if they’ve simply not received it, or if the Keeper is reluctant to answer.” As Baraneth spoke the elf’s nose scrunched, a troubled look coming across her face.

“That’s unlike clan Sabrae, since the Blight…” she trailed off with a shake of her head. “I believe Laurel is going to be traveling that way with Zev, I can have her check in and send missives myself, though I can’t guarantee any more of an answer.” 

She frowned, making a face caught between worry and frustrating before shifting to an affirmative nod, as if she’d just decided in answer in some internal argument. Alistair raised a brow, wondering if he should break the lengthening quiet. “I’ll do the best I can.” she finally said, rubbing a hand up and down her upper arm. “But this is troubling. Is that all?” 

It was a dismissal if they were ever going to get one and with a shared look Alistair and Baraneth pushed back their chairs. “That’s all, thank you for humoring us so late Ru.” 

“It’s hardly humoring, it was better than being left to my books.” With a wry smile, Ruinel waved, though Alistair caught the tail end of a long sigh when the door clicked closed behind them. 

Already Baraneth was marching down the hallway, slipping the two notes she had scribbled to a passing staff member. “To the stables and to the guard house please.” he caught her voice as he caught up to her, turning an inquisitive eye on her. 

“Just to begin preparing should this all work out.”  she explained, slowing her pace. “Getting word out. Do you think we should be worried for Ru?” 

Sudden enough was the question that it took him a moment to loop back around to a response. Her lips were paused, worry dark in her eyes. When his fingers brushed across the back of her hand as they walked her eyes flitted down. “I think she’s as tired and stressed as we find ourselves to be. And for her it simply seems to be one trouble after another.” 

“Fair,” Baraneth sighed, carding a hand through her hair and turning her eyes up to the ceiling. “I guess it will do no good to fret over her, she doesn’t much appreciate it. And it does no good to try and plan anything else for the remainder of the night...we should best retire.” 

* * *

  
  


By the next morning the responses from their staff had been received and a raven was fast beating its wings in a return letter to Orzammar confirming their intentions. It seemed that everything could go off without a hitch, if they could simply get the approval of their head advisor.  

“Eamon,” Alistair’s eyes widened at the no-nonsense edge in Baraneth’s voice when she turned hard blue eyes on Eamon, brokering no argument. A new sort of emboldment seemed to be flowing between them, he realized, as though they’d been unshackled with their coronation. A small smile quirked up the corners of the queen’s lips. “The coronation is passed, if in short time, we are in full power to do what is deemed necessary. This is a diplomatic outreach bridging the connection between humans and dwarves. King Harrowmont will not wait on Kal’Hirol for long, he wants our word that he and his people can safely take it back into their kingdom.” 

“We’ve already arranged a small group to go with us, guards, a liaison to Orzammar, all such provisions.” Alistair didn’t allow a moment’s pause between Baraneth dropping away and his voice filling the space she left behind. 

Nodding along, she added, “It’s only a day and a half’s ride to Amaranthine and a few hours travel beyond that to Kal’Hirol.” 

Eamon’s eyes alit with a thought and he lifted his chin as if to refute them, only to be cut off by a lift of Baraneth’s hand. “And the Warden Commander has allocated a generous guard of Wardens to accompany us and those traveling from Orzammar should there be any lingering darkspawn below ground.” 

His sigh was gruff, his voice gruffer. “If you’ve all but saddled the horses in the stable I cannot stop you.” 

“But you disprove?” Baraneth substituted in with an edge. 

“I simply think that your plans move too quickly than is traditional.” Eamon said tiredly. “And that sometimes upsetting tradition causes unrest.” 

Set in their plan, Baraneth didn’t yet seem ready to let go of the suspicion that they would be flat out told no, and in the terse pause between words Alistair slid in, holding out a placating hand between the two. “This was an issue that presented itself without time to call the Bannorn and needs to be resolved before we lose the waning trust of Orzammar.” 

“You’ve thought this out thoroughly...I cannot deny it would be good to have the dwarves endeared to us.” Eamon splayed his palms across the knolled wood of his desk, fixing them in a stern look. “But I urge you to bear in mind the consequences such abrupt decisions could hold and that you shift your interests to the Bannorn before they become antsy.” 

“Understood.” Alistair ducked his head, eying Baraneth from the corner of his eye until she finally gave an inclination of her head and murmured, “Understood, the Bannorn shall return to our priority as soon as we are able.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Kudos and comments are always appreciated <3 
> 
> Feel free to come shout at me over on tumblr at captainderyn; I will happily shout about just about anything and post a lot of extra ficlets of the idiots in this story! 
> 
> Thank you endlessly to the people who have helped me brainstorm, motivate, and edit this fic: Anchanted_One over on discord for be so kind as to read this, ofmistandrain on tumblr for being the best brainstorming friend, and shortmandown for being my best friend who shouted at me through November to keep writing. Love you all!


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